


Our Days are Numbered

by Unknown_Entry



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: (Canonical reference to) Past Rape, Amputation, F/F, Gore, M/M, Multi, PTSD, Past Abuse, Rated M for Gore and Violence, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violence, author attempts to be medically accurate but will probably fail, because Renison is life, input and corrections very welcome, lowkey, renison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown_Entry/pseuds/Unknown_Entry
Summary: What if the FBI stop the Hatfords from entering the country on the day of Nathan Wesninski's Parole? What if Neil was left in his father's hands for longer than a few minutes?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> ~~This idea won't leave my head. I started mapping it out, researching amputation victims and techniques and before I knew it, I'm actually writing at 4am.~~   
>  ~~I've got a complete story in my head but it is sporadic. Here is an excerpt from approximately Chapter 4. Let me know what you think. It has a large plot, but I don't know how long it will be in the end.~~   
>  ~~Any input medically speaking is so welcome. I'm only basing this on google searches and my own brain. Likewise let me know if you need additional tags or trigger details once I start posting regularly.~~   
>  ~~Thank you for reading. :)~~
> 
>  
> 
> Hello all! We're back in buisness. 
> 
> First off I'd like to give a big thank you for the response. Big shout out to [kittenruffle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenruffle/pseuds/kittenruffle),  
> [Chocolate_Hell_Cookies_Freedom2481999](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolate_Hell_Cookies_Freedom2481999/pseuds/Chocolate_Hell_Cookies_Freedom2481999),  
> [Ray_of_stars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_of_stars/pseuds/Ray_of_stars),  
> [Cheshire_kitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshire_kitty/pseuds/Cheshire_kitty) and  
> [thegirlwiththeprettybrowneyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththeprettybrowneyes/pseuds/thegirlwiththeprettybrowneyes) for their absolutely lovely comments.  
> You guys kept me going through the week. Sending lots of love to you five. <3 
> 
> I'd also like to take this moment to reassure some people. Yes it will be a bit gorey and intense at the beginning, but I will put trigger warnings in the notes and breaks in the text so you can skip the harsher stuff if you want. Don't hesitate to pm me if you need anything more or think there should be tags on anything.
> 
> I will try and get a new chapter up at least once a week. My big writing days will be Friday and Monday as I work weird hours, but will do my best. The idea for this fic is large, but I don't know how long it will be in the end. We'll just have to find out together. :P
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks for reading! Now on to the prologue:**

What it comes down to in the end is a phone call. 

A phone call and a decision to uphold what was fair and just and flawed, versus a decision to turn a blind eye while a lesser evil is committed to prevent far greater ones.

It is a split-second decision made over a crackling line in the main FBI office, New York, at two on a crisp Friday morning in March. This was not for a lack of planning or forewarning, but because they were two evenly matched choices and neither would have a happy outcome.

On one hand there was letting the Hatfords, an established and dangerous British crime family, through the borders of Baltimore Washington International Airport on the day Nathan Wesninski was to be released on parole.

Nathan Wesninski had been linked by marriage to the Hatford main family, through one Mary Hatford, before she had mysteriously disappeared ten years ago, along with their only son. 

It didn’t take a seasoned detective to know the Hatford’s visit wouldn’t be friendly.

The FBI didn’t even have the good conscious to assume that best case scenario the Hatfords were just popping over for a cup of tea. The family had contacted the FBI directly on the day Nathan Wesninski had been sanctioned for early parole back in January and proposed a deal. They were convinced that Nathan knew where their lost family members were and wanted to be granted the right for a “friendly” chat with him, in exchange for some evidence that would put him back in jail for a few more years. All the FBI had to do was look over their presence and any “unfortunate casualties” they left in their wake. 

They promised they would leave Wesninski in one piece to stand trial for his actions. However if Wesninski had indeed killed his wife and child, as the FBI suspected, there was no possible guarantee that the Hatfords would keep their deal and leave him alive.

Family was family after all. And criminals in their very nature had little regard for the law.

But the fact of the matter was Nathan Wesninski was an enigma. 

Before his brief prison sentence, the police raided his house frequently in hopes of obtaining evidence or catching him in an act of violence. It always yielded nothing.

Even the small charges he was put away on in 2014 weren't directly aimed at him. A woman, by the name of Susan Westly, had appeared at a local police station in downtown Seattle with enough evidence to put away a small Japanese yakuza affiliated group operating on the western ports. This woman had promptly disappeared without a trace or a credit trail the moment she left the station, fifteen minutes after she'd entered. 

Among the evidence that succeeded in decimating the group with rumoured connections to the Matsumotos, was detailed transcripts that showed business transactions between the group and the Wesninski syndicate. 

It wasn't much, but is was enough to lock Wesninski away and buy a few years reprieve.

The fact it worked so perfectly was the problem.

Crime in Baltimore city didn't diminish overnight or anything as dramatic, but there was such a significant lull in the eastern crime rate, it was noticeable. A few less missing persons per month. Less brutal murders and less brutality in those murders. More time passing between new drugs hitting the street and a reduction in new faces on the prostitution scene. 

You know what they say: you sometimes don't realise how bad a situation is until it suddenly gets better. The local stations were still busy, as indicative of a large city, but they were no longer struggling to get by.

It was hard to think about allowing the monster return to his kingdom when there was a loaded pistol in the drawer. Or a phone call away as the case may be.

Still, there was the matter of justice, the strict sense of right versus wrong, the very foundtion the police system was based on.

Not to mention that this would be getting help from a foreign, untested criminal group. Who’s to say they weren’t as bad? Would keep their word? Wouldn’t use this opportunity to try and seize the eastern ports? With blood connections in the mix, they could easily see it as being in their ‘jurisdiction’ with Wesninski out of the way. 

Yes, there was always corruption in any police force. Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely, yada yada, so on and so forth. But where did one draw the line?

These were the internal struggles Special Agent Frances faced as she picked up the phone at 02:07 on that chilly, spring morning.

June Frances had headed the investigation on Nathan Wesninski for the past five years and had been part of the main team for much longer. 

There had been many other cases since, but none had quite captivated her quite like this one.

She still remembers meeting that small boy from her early days on the force, while performing a perfunctory sweep of the Wesninski residence. There was something in the sad baby blue eyes and quiet frame of Nathan Wesninski’s nine year old son that stuck with her all these years. 

She had become desensitised to many harsh and ugly realities since starting in the force, but still couldn't completely let go of that solemn, old stare in that too young body. It pushed her forward to try and find justice for this long dead boy and all the other innocent lives Wesninski had made disappear. To see Nathan Wesninski pay for his crimes publicly in court. To prove that the system  _ could _ work. To give people  _ hope _ .

The phone echoed harshly in the empty space. Baltimore was calling.

click.

“Special Agent Frances, what's the status?”

“The  _ Pigeons _ have arrived ma'am,” answered Special Agent Browning, with noticeable derision down the wavering phone line. “Are we sending them on their way back to the coup or letting them through?”

She had gotten the go ahead from the Director this- or well yesterday evening, now. But he also said he'd leave it up to her. She was the most involved in this case. If she thought they had a chance of doing this overboard, she was advised they send the Hatfords on their way. But if she thought it was too much without getting their hands dirty. . .

She was given the keys to the drawer. 

Frances was normally a very decisive person, but this case rubbed her the wrong way. It was a choice between moral principles or executing some very bad people without trial. On getting vicious revenge for spilled life and big blue eyes or setting a trap and waiting for it to spring. 

In another life, perhaps she'd have chosen differently. She’d have ignored her core values and chosen a meaner swifter method of justice. 

But that was not this life.

“Send them home Browning,” she sighed. “We'll get this bastard our own way somehow. There’s an interesting money trail leading down to South Carolina; they’re getting cocky and reckless. We don't need the new blood on our soil.”

“Roger that,” Browning huffed. “Never agreed with this plan anyway. We have enough trouble without having the Brits forcing their way over here on top of it. I'll call back once they're in the air.” 

The line abruptly went dead. The scene cuts to black.

The regret doesn’t come until later.


	2. Bringhamton Riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil is gone and Andrew is missing something important. He's going to find out what it is through any means nessicary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION! IF YOU ARE SUBSCRIBED TO THIS AND COMING BACK FOR MORE, CHECK CHAPTER ONE! It has completely changed. I first posted an excerpt for chapter four-ish, which has since been replaced with the Prologue. 
> 
> Also, if you are returning: THANK YOU SO MUCH! Omg, all your comments are the reason I'm continuing this. I hope I create a story you like. :3
> 
> I actually did this chapter a while ago but never got around to posting it. It has not been  
> Beta-d, so there are liable to be some mustakes, I apologise. I will probably come back for some light editing later.
> 
> Life is super busy, so no promises, but I will try to start posting more. Might even get chapter two up this weekend, we'll see. ;)
> 
> Thanks again for all your support and I hope you enjoy!! Xoxo
> 
> Suggested song: Kettering by The Antlers 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mild. Basic canon levels of violence, etc. Maybe an attempted chocking, you know the drill. ;)

Andrew did not believe in regret.

Bad things happened and the world was cruel. That was the simple truth.

_(Or as Neil would say, the people were: eyes discompassionate and skittish as they tracked their surroundings and waited to betrayed again)._

The world moved on without mercy; it did not wait for you to catch up. The dice rolled and gave you a value that could either send you up a ladder towards opportunity or condemn you down the slippery snake's back one more time.

Regret made you weak.

It froze your feet to the floor unable to move forward. It made your body heavy and tired and aching. It ate you from the inside out and did nothing to save you from your troubles.

Regret had no purpose other than to trap you in your mind and make you give up the fight. To make you replay scenes in your head over and over again, looking for an answer to a question you would never hear again.

So no, Andrew did not regret his actions in the ten minutes leading up to the riot, but he did analyse them.

Because until Neil reappeared in front of him the question had not yet been asked.

_(His eyes were soft as he emerged from the shadowed hallway. Soft in a way that made Andrew’s heart stutter: like all that fire had finally been put out. Like they were screaming a quiet goodbye)._

As he neared the Foxhole bus again, checking for a mop of unruly red hair in the foggy windows, checking for relieved faces through the doorway to beckon him closer, he pivoted to the right, beginning another sweep around the college grounds, his phone going up to is ear as he started to call back the stateside hospital while another, almost identical phone lay unused in his jean pocket.

The text that contained nothing but a single zero value seemed to burn through the fabric on his leg.

_(He was on his third circuit of the campus when he saw it, the garish orange fabric calling out from beneath piles of coats and backpacks shoved beneath the steps of a nearby football stadium, too far away. It rattled when picked up, like a rusty wind chime outside an abandoned house)._

After three minutes on the phone to a rambling nurse who obviously didn't know where his idiot was, he hung up and proceeded to call regional. He entered the exy stadium and went to search through the locker rooms again to see if he missed anything or if the idiot was in fact hiding in one of the cramped lockers.

He passed through the waiting room and refused to look at the garish green couch.

_(Neil didn't look at him; instead he slowly dragged his gaze around the locker room, silently and efficiently cataloging his team's excited faces. Not one to be ignored, Andrew rose up from where he'd been lying on the couch in attempt to gather his strength after pushing himself so hard on the court. He bounced in front of Neil and gave him a questioning and judgmental look; Neil just smiled, his eyes half closing and crinkling at the edges)._

Having a edic memory was, in many ways, a curse.

He swept into the locker room and started banging open all the lockers one by one, his face set in a determined scowl. When an attendant at the hospital answered the phone after his fourth redial, he swiftly gave a perfunctory description of red hair and blue eyes. When the attendant said that there had been no one new admitted for the past hour, he hung up and began to call the coastal hospital again.

_(Andrew knew from the look on his face that something was wrong, but he also knew that if he didn't want a bundle of lies, neatly packaged, bow and all, as a response, he'd have to wait until they were alone at the back of the bus again to ask. There were too many listening ears and he recognised that skittish look in his eyes too well. He could wait; there was time)._

There was no time.

Neil had officially been missing for almost four hours now. The longer he was missing, the more likely it was he was in serious trouble. And if he was in serious trouble, the longer it was, the less likely they would find a warm body. The more damaged he would be if when they did find him.

_(Thank you)._

Andrew punched the final empty locker and the metal door dented with a sickening crack. He bowed his head forward and closed his eyes briefly.

_(You were amazing)._

He had to keep it together. The rest of the foxes were still ignorant of what a missing idiot could mean. Andrew had to find him.

“Hello? Excuse me, is anyone there?”

The voice came from down an echoing phone line, backdropped by rattling equipment, beeping machines and a flurry of authoritative voices barking orders at each other.

“Hello?”

“Yes.” He began hoarsely down the the line. He coughed shortly and continued, “I'm looking for a mouthy redhead by the name of Neil Josten. He's about five foot four, blue eyes, scarred torso and has the number four tattooed on his cheek. He would have come in with the Binghamton Riot.”

“Oh yes! You called before, I remember. No I'm sorry, still no one by that description I'm afraid. If you want I c-”

The phone went dead. His heart was still thudding loudly by the unexpected bit of hope her initial response had given him. Stupid.

“Get it together, Doe,” he muttered quietly to himself as he turned and exited the locker room.

He could have checked the rest of the stadium more thoroughly but he'd already done it so many times he no longer saw the point. He wasn't here, it was as simple as that.

He excited the exy stadium and kept his eyes forward as he marched back towards the bus.

_(As the guards urged them towards the exit, one in the front by Neil and one taking up the rear, Andrew watched his idiot turn away from him with a final glance. When they exited the stadium doors to the sounds of two opposing crowds of screaming fans on either side. But that was of little consequence to Andrew; they had dealt with a lot of things since Kevin joined their team over a year ago. He only spared a fraction of attention to them as he watched Neil's retreating back. He'd let go the promise that bound him to protecting Neil, but that said nothing of the promise he'd made to himself to protect people he considered as his own. He took in Neil's tense shoulders and clenched fists and wondered. He was missing something; the bus ride home couldn't come quick enough)._

Wymack was sitting on the steps of the bus, telephone up to his ear. From the sounds of it he was talking to the local police force again.

Most of the other foxes didn't realise the true significance of finding Neil's things abandoned by the wayside, but Wymack certainly did. He had officially declared Josten missing and allowed the cops to take some statements from himself and some teammates.

Neil was afraid of being found by the police, but this time they were hoping to use that to their advantage. The look on Wymack’s face said that avenue had failed as thoroughly as all the others. He just wasn't _here_.

_(It was like watching a mirage disappear before his very eyes. One minute Andrew was watching the taut sinews of Neil's long neck and the next a bottle thrown over his head from the left made him look away and brace himself for a coming fight. Kevin tripped into his personal space from behind and Andrew gripped his sweater tight to keep him close. He glanced back to where he was watching Neil, not two seconds ago, to find nothing but air. He was gone, disappeared in the smoke like a hallucination, or a pipe dream. The opposing crowds collided with a mighty roar)._

“Any ideas?”

Whymack’s weary voice cut him from his revier. It was approaching two o’clock in the morning at the end of a very long day and it showed on Whymack’s face; his eyes had big purple bags under them but his eyes were clear. The adrenaline from having a missing player was keeping him focused. Good.

Andrew’s eyes drifted past him briefly cataloging the various states the rest of the foxes were in.

Most of them were collapsed single file on the bus chairs where they could, trying to catch some rest after the long day. Dan was cuddled up in a sleeping Matt’s lap in the first row behind Abby’s, but her eyes were sharp as they caught his. She wouldn't be able to rest until all her team was all accounted for.

Behind her Renee was combing her hands through a sleeping Alison's hair; her eyes were the fierce ones of Natalie as she regarded him.

He could hear Nicky’s obnoxious snores coming from somewhere in the back and Keven’s interminable tapping as he continued messing around with Neil's racket, as if keeping it in perfect condition would make Neil reappear.

_(Kevin went as white as sheet when Andrew returned with Neil's sports bag and Exy racket. Whymack cursed and turned around bring his phone up to his ear and started barking down the line. Kevin grabbed the racket out of Andrew's hands when he was close enough and began incessantly wiping at the dirt on it with the edge of his sleeve. Not in the mood to deal with him, Andrew left him at it. When the Coach was inevitably put on hold and Andrew was sure to have the rest of the foxes attention, he explained about the two unknown missed calls and the weird text. Kevin had officially checked out and made no reaction to show he'd understood anything he said. He and Whymack watched over Alison's shoulder as she looked up the phone area codes on her phone, but neither rang any bells, good or bad. The first was from a mobile and the second was from a city a three hour drive away. Though Neil had supposedly been all over America, Andrew had never once heard him mention Baltimore)._

“He's not here,” Andrew responded at last, voice as blank as he could make it. “I don't know where he is but this isn't normal. If he finally decided to run, he'd have taken his stuff. Maybe it's time we call the Moriyamas.” He sneered the name unchecked derision. He must have been too loud because Nicky was no longer snoring and he could see Matt and Alison rousing from their frightful sleep.

In an unexpected show of backbone, Kevin rose surely but unsteadily to his feet. The words he spoke next set the fire rumbling within Andrew's chest ablaze and knocked whatever remaining drowsiness straight out the foxes’ systems, like a well aimed shot from their lead striker.

The neon clock on the bus dashboard read 02:03.

“Don't bother,” he said hoarsely into the enclosed space, his small voice echoing like a shout in the stillness of the bus. “He won't be there. They're not behind this, not directly anyway.”

He looked indecisive and shaky on his feet, one moment away from sitting back down and leaving that be that. Andrew wouldn't let him. If he knew something and stayed silent until now. . .

“Explain,” Andrew all but shouted back at him.

Instead of answering Kevin began to flounder visibly, whatever bit of spine he'd acquired in the last five minutes draining from him. He had the whole bus’s attention now and he couldn't take it. Andrew did not care.

Andrew began his walk down the bus to Kevin’s seat in the back.

“So help me Kevin if you know where he is and have kept quiet about it, forget Riko, I'll kill you myself.”

He stopped in front of Kevin’s now trembling form, Neil's freshly re-strung Exy racket gripped tightly in his hands.

“Kevin!”

“I-I d-don’t know exactly where he his, b-but, I-if,” he cut himself off, clearing his throat briefly and Andrew's nails bit into his palms from clenching them so hard.

“If what? The Moriyamas are the ones after him right? If you are trying to imply it wasn't them, someone has been lying to me.”

Someone behind him gasped a little at that, but he truly could not care.

“I promised him I wouldn't say,” he choked out at last, crumpling in on himself and collapsing back on the seat, head turning away to gaze morosely out the window. From the corner of the eye Andrew could see most of the foxes standing near them now, eyes tracking them both.

“The time for secrets has past,” Andrew responds, his voice calm and deadly.

“I-I can't,” he whispers into the void, voice hollow like he's already said his goodbyes and has been grieving the loss of a close friend for some time now. “I thought I could but I can't.” He stokes the stings of the racket almost caringly. “It's his story to tell. He was supposed to be able to tell it himself. We were supposed to have more time.”

He looks towards Andrew again as if looking for sympathy; he gets two hands wrapped around his throat instead.

_. . ._

_He and Neil were sitting up on the roof of the fox tower, feet tucked over the edge._

_The night was dark: the only light coming from their cigarettes and speckles of light in the distance below their feet._

_Andrew looked idly at his feet dangling into the bottomless pit beneath and dreams._

_He doesn't know what time was, but they really should be going to bed. Neil just finished up his nightly practice with Kevin and they have morning practice again in a few hours. They made out a bit at first, after arriving up here, but now were just staring into the dark cradling their burning embers close._

_He's just about to demand they go in, not wanting to see the sun rise before he gets any sleep, when Neil speaks._

_“I never understood what family could mean before I moved here, became a fox. I thought I knew, but I was wrong.”_

_He took a rare puff of smoke after that emission, usually not one for actually using cigarettes for their intended purpose._

_If he wanted this conversation to continue, he'd have to give up something too. It was how their little game worked. But, even though it was hard dredge these old memories, it didn't feel like giving something up but rather letting something go. That scared him a little before he pushed the emotion down._

_“I've seen a lot of versions of family growing up. Of course none of them ever sticked,” he thought of Cass’s warm smile and Drake's cool smirk. “To most of them I was a prop to try and hold up crumbling foundations of a marriage or a thing to exploit.”_

_He took a final long drag of his cigarette stub before crushing it out on the concrete and lighting another one. So much for getting any sleep tonight._

_“My parents were the same,” he smiled sarcastically at Andrew. “Though their marriage wasn't so much crumbling as a political arrangement and a public show. They never touched each other in private but would would have the greatest parties and act all affectionate to one another then.”_

_He took another slow drag and gazed out into the black horizon._

_“I was expected to smile at sit quietly in the corner throughout. Not to fidget,” he looked solemnly at his fingers for a second. “Sometimes the guests would like to mess with me: pull my hair, pinch my skin, put a lighter out on my arm.”_

_His feet kicked back and forward over the edge as his memories flooded his blue eyes that he always seemed to flinch away from if he ever saw them reflected in something. So many issues._

_“It was always better to take it quietly and keep smiling.” Neil continued ruefully. “I learned that pretty quick.”_

_After it became apparent that was all Neil was going to say unprompted, Andrew finally broke and asked him why. Neil look seemed to say it should be obvious._

_He put a hand gently over the spot where Andrew knew the mark from the hot iron lay, looking at Andrew expectantly._

_“I got this because I fidgeted too much during a police invasion. What do you think? He always took the time to make me realise the. . error of my ways if I acted badly.”_

_He shrugged helplessly, a kind of, ‘what can you do’ gesture._

_They went in soon after that._

_Andrew thought Neil's parents were lucky they were dead, because he would have taken his sweet time making them suffer for everything they'd done to his redheaded idiot if he could._

_But such was life. At least Neil could start to move on with them gone._

_He had been alone for most of his life after his parents death._

_For the first time he had found a home._

_Andrew intended to keep it that way._

_He flicked his last cigarette stub over the edge as they rose to their feet._

_Let it stay there and try and burn some of the darkness away._

_It would be morning soon anyway._

. . .

It took both Whymack, Matt and Renee to get his hands from around Kevin's throat.

Normally not one for physical touch, Andrew paid them little mind. Instead he stared into Kevin's frightened and guilty eyes, daring him to play the self pity card again.

He spoke to Kevin gently, like talking to a small spoiled child, as Renee jabbed at the weak points in his elbows in an attempt to get him to let him go.

“You are going to find your spine again, Kevin Day. Right now. You are going to calmly and succinctly tell me all you know about whatever boogieman Neil has in his past that you think has finally caught up with him. And you are going to do it with a smile.”

“For christ’s sake, Andrew! Let go!” Whymack bellowed. Hmmm, Kevin was turning a lovely shade of purple.

“You are going to tell this whole bus of people the whole truth and you are going to tell us all the places you think he might be. You are going to betray Neil and you are going never withhold important information again when it comes life or death Listen to me Kevin. You are going to stop being a coward and y-”

As Kevin's eyes started to roll back in his head Renee stopped using less violent tactics and delivered a sharp uppercut right to the centre of his stomach. It made his hands loosen enough that Whymack and Matt were finally able to get his hands off Kevin.

They pulled him harshly backward and Renee positioned her body protectively between Kevin and his so called attacker. Andrew rolled his eyes as Abby slipped past them, kit in hand to attend at Kevin’s side.

Andrew used the time it would take Abby to get Kevin able to speak properly again to calm down slightly and gather his thoughts.

He had believed Neil when he told him his ‘truths,’ but obviously something wasn't quite adding up. Perhaps it had been silly to trust a compulsive liar so completely. He knew most of his stories were ground in truth but there was something, some core truth, he'd lied about.

It now made sense why Neil wanted to absolve their deal so completely. How could Andrew possibly protect him if he didn't know exactly he was protecting him from?

He didn't like feeling foolish and wanted to give Neil a piece of his mind for doing to him.

But first he had to get him back.

“Wow, well that was the most I've heard Andrew speak since he got off his meds!” Nicky laughed nervously, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

Kevin sent him a derisive look, more like his usual self that anything he'd shown in the last five hours. 

“Ready to talk yet?” Andrew called out faux-cheerily, a cheap imitation of his former drug-induced self.

Kevin looked at him warily, his face semi-guilty as Abby poked and prodded at his neck.

Abby on the other hand sent him a nasty glare that warned him to stay back.

“Now you listen to me Andrew Minyard, I know you're worried about Neil but we don't know anything yet. You can wait a few minutes. And if you think you can get away with choking your friend like that you've got another thing coming!”

Andrew stared calmly into her fierce round eyes and reminded her of one important fact.

“Neil might not have a few minutes.”

Her face crumpled slightly as she went back to tending to her patient.

It took fifteen long minutes before Kevin was able to properly say more that a few words in a row. He sat at the centre of the bus this time, the foxes surrounding him on either side.

Andrew stood in front of him with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall with no adorning seats, that worked as a walkway from the front to the back of the bus.

He raised his eye expectantly at Kevin expectantly even as his heart pounded with the thought of how much time was passing.

“Um, I don't know where to start,” Kevin admitted weakly, after a few tense moments of silence.

“At the beginning, dumb dumb,” Alison sighed with a role of her eyes. Only her rigid posture and serious eyes betrayed her anxiety. “Quickly now.”

“Well, Neil's been on the run for most of his life with his mother,” he began at last. “Since he was about ten?”

“I thought his mother was dead,” Andrew responded viciously, ignoring his teammates audible exclamations . Lie number one here we come.

“Um, well I believe she is now. Neil told me he buried her off the coast of California almost a year before we signed him.”

_(I went through California on my way to Arizona but didn't stay. I liked Seattle, I think, but . . . I couldn't live there again. I couldn't retrace my steps to any of those places)._

“Are you serious? Ugh, I think I'm going to be sick. My poor baby Neil,” Nicky moaned. He didn't care enough to work the rest of the teams murmurings.

“Who were they running from?” Andrew prompted, wishing the team would shut up for once.

“His father. And before you ask yes, he most certainly is still alive. He should still be in prison but that doesn't mean his people wouldn't work on his orders,” he swallowed visibly before continuing. “If his father himself had him, he'd most certainly be dead.”

_(He hit me as soon as the door closed behind them. That's why I gave you 'Abram'. I don't want to give you my father's name because I don't want anyone to call me it ever again. I hated him)._

Lie number two ladies and gentlemen. The truth settled onto his chest like an upcoming panic attack. Neil's father had always been a dark cloud that could overtake his expression at any moment. The thought that he was still alive and actively searching for him, could have him now. . It made Andrew want to scratch his skin off.

“Wait,” Matt said. “His father? I know family isn't perfect, we all know that more than most. But are trying to tell me that his father has been actively searching for him for the past, I don't know ten years? To try and kill him?” His face was incredulous with his naivety.

“Yes,” Kevin said simply.

“Well screw that,” Alison said sharply. “Give me his father’s name so I can confirm that he's in fact still in prison and let's head to wherever his ‘domain’ or get us our lead striker back.”

Kevin was hesitant under her stern gaze, Andrew tapped his finger slowly on the window to hurry him up.

“His father’s name is-,” he glanced around anxious if someone was going to jump out at him for revealing this much. “It's Nathan Wesninski, otherwise known as the Butcher of Baltimore. That's where we need to be: if they have Neil, if they have Nathaniel, it's somewhere in Baltimore.”

Alison and Whymack met Andrew's eyes with matching grim expressions. Andrew didn't believe in consequences either.

“Neil received a call from someone with an area code from Baltimore ten minutes before the riots. They have him,” Andrew spoke almost gently with no emotion in his voice. It did nothing to represent the turmoil within. It was over five hours since the riot had started, this had taken too long. They might already be too late. If the people who took him left with him straight after, he'd have been in Baltimore for two hours already.

Suddenly Allison let out a soft cry that was so out of character that everyone turned their eyes to her fearfully. She was looking at her fancy smartphone, skin now white as a sheet. The worst had happened.

“A one Nathan Wesninski, held in a Seattle high security prison but reigning originally from Baltimore, was released from early parole this morning,” she read aloud softly. She looked up at Kevin sternly. “Tell me he has a chance.”

All the fight had drained from Kevin and he looked to be about to fall asleep with exhaustion at any moment.

“He's probably already dead,” he sighed, almost resignedly. “The best we can hope for is that they make it slow and we get there in time. But either way, I don't think there'll be much left for us to find. No one ever finds the bodies; it's one of the reasons Wesninski has remained elusive for so long.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “That and he is Kengo Moriyama’s right hand man and executioner. Don't think I mentioned that yet.” He laughed softly and hysterically, face turning away into the upholstery. It was like a dam had broken, he couldn't shut up now.

“Did you know Nathaniel played as a backliner in little league? The Moriyamas hand pick their people, they had no use for a blood heir in the long run. He was to be handed over the Master when he was ten years old, if he was good enough, or executed by his father's hand then and there. I met him then you know, didn't realise who he was until the banquet but,” he looked up drearily at the surrounding frozen figures of his teammates. “His mother ran with him and five million dollars before he could complete the test. We'll never know will we?” He laughed at the foxes shocked faces and then groaned loudly. “Urgh, I need a drink.” He collapsed back onto the seat, truly out for the count now.

The clock now read 02:47.

“Coach, Abby,” Dan called out sternly, the first to find her composure and determined to get everyone moving again. “Get us on the road. Allison is there anyone you can call to get us in contact with the FBI? The government? Anyone you think we could use to find out where Nie-Nathaniel has been taken and get him out of there?” Her gaze shone with unshed tears, but her gaze was firm.

As the Coach hurried past to go start the engine, Allison straightened her posture resolutely, though for a few moments and then smiled dangerously.

“Yes in fact, my parents have a top lawyer team stationed in Maryland. They should answer to me no matter the time.” She swept up back towards her regular seat at the head of the bus, Renee in tow and phone coming up to her ear with a swish of her wrist. “Ah Henderson, good morning darling. This is Ms Reynolds calling, I hope the kids are well. I have an urgent proposition for you. Just a bit of a matter of life and death, so the sooner we get this done the better. Excellent.” She smiled sweetly into the phone line.

Andrew tuned her out then, not wanting to hear her recount the whole situation again. He felt a bit like a balloon without a tether right then. He had gotten the truth out of Kevin and spurred the right foxes into action. There was nothing left to do now but wait.

He watched as Whymack pulled bus out of the college grounds, not caring that at least half the occupants were still standing around. As he pulled out onto the highway, the remaining few got the idea and made to go back to their regular seats.

Nicky and Aaron stayed up the middle, as they had done for the second half of the journey to Binghamton, so long ago. As Andrew made his way back to the back seat he caught the tail end of their conversation.

“-I mean, it was obvious he was hiding stuff, but that’s just horrible. My parents wouldn't win any Parents of the Year awards, but they’d never try to kill me!?”

“In cold blood anyway.”

“Yeah, but that's what I mean. They did a lot of awful shit, and I can never forgive them for all of it, but it was all ‘pray the gay away’ or ignorantly reuniting an abuser with- well,” he glanced what he must of thought of as saying at Andrew's retreating form, Andrew made no move to indicate he was listening. “They would never actively try kill family? And god, Neil's poor mother, do you think? And Kevin said he buried her I just.”

“Yeah,” Aaron said after a moment. Not a fan of Neil in general, Andrew was mildly surprised when he continued to open up a bit. “Like, I know Tilda wasn't perfect, and maybe she'd have hit me too hard, one day, and that have been it. But it wouldn't have been on purpose, you know?”

As Andrew was turning around to sit down on his seat at the back of the bus, he saw the big glossy stare Nicky had directed at Aaron after that comment. He fluttered his eyes briefly and then looked down, as if watching his hand tremble or twisting them tight. Andrew couldn't see with all the chairs in the way.

“I- I just hope he's okay,” Nicky whined eventually. “I don't even care that he never told us anything, that he didn't trust us enough to have his back with this. He just needs to be okay. I just need to be able to give him a big, big hug, you know? He's part of our family” he chokes briefly on the word, “and we love him and he just needs to be okay.”

Nicky started to sniffle in earnest; the silence following his rant was oppressive. Andrew couldn't focus on the chair in front of him without feeling slightly sick.

_(Neil gazed down at him with a startling unguarded look, his head resting gently on his folded arms over the headrest; gazing down like Andrew was something lovely to look at and not dirty, dirty, dirty. Andrew couldn't stand it)._

He closed his eyes as he lay back across the seat, focusing on the feel of the vibrations of the bus beneath him, forcing his mind to go blank.

It was an agonising hour and a half before Henderson finally pulled through.

The clock read 04:35.


	3. A Naked White Bulb, a Dusty Ceiling and Moving Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil pleads, a shark grins and the scene continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Cl3 Ask and thee shall receive. ;)
> 
> Seriously tho, thank you so much everyone for all your absolutely amazing comments. You are the people that keep me from backing out from this project. I’m only sorry it’s taking so long.
> 
> This chapter was my anthesis, I swear. It’s only 2.6k but I’ve written probably 10k in discarded drafts, etc. Not to mention research. Things should pick up after this! I’ve got a total of about 30k written so far, and I can also tell you, this is gonna be a long fic, rip me. :’)
> 
> WARNING! Some explicit descriptions of torture and amputation here. Feel free to skip if you must! I left markers. Also, I did a lot of research, but not many have good solid data on the whole torture thing. This is a combo of science, imagination and crossed fingers. If you see any blatantly impossible or stupid things, etc. Let me know! I have no personal experience with amputations, but feel free to tell me your stories and facts. ;)
> 
> To avoid the worst of it, stop reading at [Skip] and resume at [ContinueX]. You can do this by either scrolling or finding in page. They should be in bold.
> 
> Un-betad as usual. Let me know what you think guys. And thanks for sticking by me. :3c Hope this small snippet was worth the wait! Next few bits are both longer and mostly written. See you soon, xx
> 
> [Edit: the ao3 editor on Mobile is an absolute bitch, why do i always have to resort to html coding it myself? How do people get by _without_ html coding it themselves? Rip everyone, ever.]

Nathaniel Abram Wesninski disappeared from the Bringhamton campus, into a highway patrol vehicle, at about 21:37 on the night of the Palmetto Foxes’ last victory in the Exy college season.

A mere three hours later, he resurfaced in an abandoned car lot in Maryland state. The cold spring air attacked his exposed wounds and sharpened his senses briefly, before he was shoved out of sight into the boot of a Baltimore Police Department cruiser.

At 12:53 he was dumped on the ground of a cool, striped cellar beneath a high class house in the suburbs. The houses on this block belonged to a range of important politicians, highly paid surgeons and born-rich. They each had large sweeping gardens and high walls to ensure privacy and security within a populated city. When Nathaniel opened his eyes, he could see the hues of old brown stains lying within the cracks of the cement from where he lay.

At 01:23, Nathan Wesninski came slowly down the stairs to greet his son home for the first time in over ten years.

. . .  
**[Skip]**  
. . .

  
Nathan Wesninski loomed over where Nathaniel was caught once more.

His bodyweight pinned Nathaniel’s trembling form to the flat, cold ground. His arms ached from where his arms were ground into the dusty floor by two large thighs. Nathan’s grip was firm and unwavering on both of his weapons: the blunt axe threatened to choke Nathaniel from where it lay heavily against the right side of his throat; the cleaver periodically sliced shallow cuts on his nose from where it rested, obscuring the vision to his left side.

His Father's teeth glistened in the bleaching, white glow of the industrial bulb hanging from above; sadistic pleasure glinting in his eyes as he forcefully held Nathaniel’s gaze.

"Please," Nathaniel begged again, unable to stop himself. His father's stare continued to bore into his soul from inches away. "Just let me go, just let me go, I'm not—"

"Lola," Nathan interrupted,seemingly oblivious to the sound of Nathaniel’s voice. “Make some tourniquets for my son's legs would you? I'm thinking about mid-calf for now. You can slice a few tendons too down there if you want.”

As Nathaniel’s trembling escalated, the weight of the large blades holding him down, increased accordingly. Blood flowed into his left eye as the clever bit more in the bridge of his nose. He heard the sound of Lola’s response but couldn't make out the words as his ears rang and his head pounded. He saw her move away from the corner of his eye as his legs made little jerks from somewhere beneath him.

“Puh, puh, pluh—” His Father’s right index and middle finger lifted slightly off the handle of his axe so they could cover his son's mouth, the tips of his fingers pressing at Nathaniel’s lips, so firmly into his teeth, that he soon tasted blood.

“Shhhhh. None of that now. You used to be such a well behaved child,” he hummed mockingly. “I see you inherited your Mother’s loud. . mouth.” He shaped the words slowly, relishing the emotion they caused to flit across Nathaniel's face. “Such disrespect even now,” he tutted, shaking his head. “Don't worry. I've got some business to attend tomorrow, so you won't last until the morning. A pity really.”

Nathaniel did a full body jerk when he felt cool hand wrap around his calf. Long nails dug in sharply, and he tried to yelp, but it came out stuttered. Nathan increased the weight of the axe on his throat, grazing the skin but not yet making a clean cut.

Nathaniel felt a strip of rough leather encircle his right calf a few inches below the knee. Lola’s body was now laying its full weight into his left leg to still its movement. Sharp fingernails pierced his skin as the hand attempted to stop his leg from kicking as the belt was tightened to extreme levels. His leg began to tingle almost immediately as the blood circulation was hindered.

Nathaniel eyes had been flitting around the edges of his father's hulking form, desperately trying to see what Lola was doing. Nathan used the blades like extensions of his arms to nudge Nathaniel’s gaze back towards him. He didn't look impressed.

Nathaniel felt whatever urine was still left in his system leave in a rush as the horrific terror encompassed his entire being. His mind filled with the echoes of the screams he used to hear through the walls and floor of his bedroom when he was a child. The screams always went on for hours in the night and sometimes all the way into the early morning.

(The worst part had always been the silence in between. They held the illusion of the end of suffering. . . before hoarse cries erupted again with no warning, jolting Nathaniel out of the beginnings of sleep).

He was truly going to die here, but Nathaniel just wished he was already dead to spare him of the pain he knew was coming. There was no escape now. Nathaniel felt his heart fracture in despair.

As Lola finished tightening the second tourniquet, Nathaniel felt the cold sharp steel of her knives drift along and pinprick at his skin, making it hard to tell what was the stab of a knife or the needle-like stab of his blood deoxygenating beneath his skin.

All the while, Nathan’s eyes bore into the eyes of his greatest disappointment in life. He son's eyes forced to meet his even in their bouts of distraction.

“So Junior, let's start again shall we?” His voice dark, deadly and whipping him back to the present. “Might as well get something out of you while we have this time together. Tell me about yourself. An Exy College scholarship hmm?” He stroked the cleaver down his cheek, removing a few layers of skin. “How left field! Did you make many friends? Get a girlfriend perhaps?” Nathaniel’s face must have given something away at that because his father's grin widened. “Ooh, what a stud. What is she like. A brunette? A blonde? You must tell me her name, I'd lovvve to meet her properly.”

The change was instant. The thought of the Butcher of Baltimore being anywhere near Andrew, filled the ghost of Neil, and all that he stood for, with a fury so hot and red, it momentarily burned away all his fear. As the cleaver moved off to the side slightly, so Nathan could start to idly add a more shallow cuts to his check, Nathaniel propelled his head forward as hard and as fast as he could into his father's awaiting face. This move caused the skin on his throat to finally break under the weight of the axe’s blade and he felt the cleaver slice off the top corner of his left ear, but anything was worth the audible crunch his father's nose made as it broke under the full impact of his skull.

The blades were back on him in an instant, his father bearing his full weight on his son’s arms. His grin was from the stuff nightmares, with the blood leaking from his nose into the cracks between his teeth.

Nathaniel mirrored the expression with the same manic anger he had inherited from the man inches before him.

The fear still encompassed Nathaniel’s entire being, his faint hope of ever surviving this was long gone, but with the anger came the clarity of why he was here. His father could do what he liked to him but he would never touch his family, his real family, with this vileness.

The Butcher of Baltimore wouldn't take Nathaniel's life without having to work for it. He would not be a submissive, begging victim. Nathaniel would use his death to end the story here. There would be no epilogue left for South Carolina.

He was Nathaniel Abram Wesninski and he would go down kicking and screaming, taking as much of his father down with him as he could.

Nathan smirked at his son's antics and called over his shoulder to where DiMaccio was still standing silent, waiting.

“Restrain Junior, I think it's time we started the main event.”

DiMaccio’s giant arms came down on either side of Nathaniel's chest and then his father withdrew from Nathaniel, leaving him free of his cleaver and axe for the first time in twenty minutes.

The moment Nathan was out of arms reach, Nathaniel went frantic: pounding and scraping at DiMaccio’s arms and face with all his might, even when DiMaccio failed to react. He only slowed when Lola’s excited laughter made him look down and he saw what had become of his legs for the first time.

She had cut his jean legs off of him from mid thigh and cut off circulation to his lower legs with taut bits of leather. Every inch of his lower calves were covered in swirling, jagged cuts that bled sluggishly. But the most notable thing was how muted the pain was. It's like his legs were not there, he couldn't eel them properly. It was a sick echo of what was to come and it made the shakes come back in full force.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He tried to lose himself in images of the foxes’ who took Neil in and made him real. As his hands grappled at DiMaccio’s frame, he pictured Matt’s huge smile and calloused fingers. As his burnt, exposed arms dragged against the dirty floor, he remembered the Coach’s large, gentle hands as he carefully put him back together after Christmas. As he kicked and flopped his legs about he imagined Renee’s lean, fighter-worn body; her hard eyes but kind, forgiving smile.

Breath threatened to escape him in a scream of anguish and despair, as the memory of Andrew's quiet, controlled presence come over him. He felt the echo of Andrew's hand in his: his firm callous grip contrasted with the feeling of his soft hair falling through Neil's hands like silk.

He felt his father step back towards him and put his left foot down hard on his left ankle holding his leg straight and taut.

Nathaniel flailed and thrashed his body to no avail.

“Lola, cut and peal some skin back for the flap. I don't want him dying from blood loss too quickly.” Nathan said thoughtfully, twirling the cleaver lightly in his right hand. “And then keep the blowtorch ready.”

Lola grabbed one of her knives off the floor and smiled brightly at Nathaniel’s wet leg.

“My pleasure,” she purred.

She cut a perfect circle around his now blue tinged leg, about three inches below the tourniquet. Nathaniel could could barely feel her do it, but he could definitely feel when she peeled the skin away up towards the knee, her hands as practiced and easy as if she was rolling up jean legs on a hot summer's day.

Nathaniel shouted brokenly with it, paralysed with it. He tried to imagine the safety of sitting on a rooftop far away and erase himself from this moment.

“Hmm. That'll do nicely.”

Lola picked up the industrial standard blowtorch and had it poised near Nathaniel’s leg. Nathan started to swing the cleaver back and forth in greater archs as he stared calculating at Nathaniel's leg.

Then he glanced into Nathaniel's eyes briefly for a moment.

“Welcome home Junior,” he smiled.

Then he turned back towards Nathaniel feet and swung the cleaver at a great arch through the layers bones and muscles in Nathaniel’s leg.

He screamed and screamed and screamed.

. . .

They took the ends of his legs first.

His father hacked the left off in a few swift swings, before applying fire to his stump, his face almost tender.

He couldn't process which event was more agonising; pain had lost all meaning and his mind twisted and burned.

As Lola finished tying the flaps of skin around the cauterized wound of his left leg with elastic bands, DiMaccio let him go.

(The world spun round and round and round).

He flailed. He punched at air and skin. He shrieked. His father smiled at him contentedly from afar. Nathaniel’s reduced depth perception couldn't tell him where that was.

(His mind was broken and the world no longer had substance. Everything was made of static).

After what could have been minutes or days, the Butcher crouched down crouched down by his prey’s jerking head and stroked the hair out of his face.

Suddenly, the Butcher started to ask it questions.

Whatever scattered money was left, it was miniscule compared to what it cost to retrieve it. The location of a unmarked grave would hold nothing but bone, ash and sand. The names of unknown, inconsequential strangers meant nothing to Butcher’s future prosperity, even as tangents.

But the just principle of it mattered just fine.

It took the polyglot too long to recognise the noises as part of the human language, so he lost his left ring finger as an incentive.

When the answers still only consisted of pleas and yells, the Butcher took the end of his other leg.

It continued like this for some time.

Over the course of the hour, the Butcher carved his chest in jagged lines. He took two finger-tips from his right hand. He took a chunk so large from his abdomen that they had to cauterise it or risk him bleeding out prematurely. (As if that would be a loss). And then he started in on the thighs of his legs once more.

All that the Butcher succeeded doing in the end, was changing the sounds of anguished screams into deranged, manic laughter.

Lola began to move the tourniquets from below his knees to his thighs and tightening.

He welcomed the numbness and laughed, hands groping frantically at the floor for purchase, for an anchor to tether to.

. . .  
**[ContinueX]**  
. . .

  
The world was fractured and spinning. Round and round and round it went blinking in and out of lucidity.

_(Brightness. Darkness. Brightness. Darkness)._

Life was reduced to ten simple truths:

_(A dust moth falling erratically through the harsh spotlight)._

Pain.

_(Piercing, unending and inescapable)._

Blood.

_(His mother grimacing triumphantly at his father, her body already dying, blood in the cracks of her teeth; Abby's large caring eyes and gentle touch as she replaced soaked-through bandages)._

Fire.

_(Searing light blinding his eyes)._

_(A car smoking on the wet sand)._

The stench, of urine, iron and bubbling flesh.

_(A shared cigarette on a lonely rooftop)._

The taste of choked down bile and dust.

_(The squelch of dusty sneakers on an Exy court; Dan’s sharp voice guiding him through the chaos; Whymack’s commanding bark that held no promise of bite)._

Sharp teeth glinting in an impatient shark’s mouth.

_(Nicky's soft affection, warm hugs and easy smiles; Aaron’s sarcastic grin; Matt’s booming, boyish laugh)._

Laughter bouncing from side to side in the enclosed space; both monsters’ and victim’s.

_(Flickers in the Dark)._

The phantom sensation of not knowing of where his body began or ended.

_(Allison’s soft spiteful but doting sarcastic voice; Kevin's quiet happiness the moment he stepped on the court, no longer a shadow; Renee’s sharp, kind smile)._

Piercing blue eyes staring into his soul.

_(Strong hazel eyes gazing into him slowly, giving him a home, telling him to stay)._

A knife hidden safely beneath spine; a monster getting close enough to touch.

_(White static going quiet)._

. . .

At 3:15 am, on a cold Saturday morning, the call was received from a downtown station on the outskirts of Baltimore city centre. People were being yelled at, plans were being set in motion and a college sports team were making their way towards the city by the sea.

But the damage had already been done.


	4. Interlude: Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Echoes from the mind of a villain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small interlude before the next chapter. Hopefully should be up tonight? Should be just under 2k.
> 
> ALSO! I edited a few of the times in the previous chapters. Basically the last two paragraphs of ch. 2 & 3 are slightly changed, and I pushed one figure in ch.2 back by 30min, so really small.
> 
> If you don’t feel like going back, basically:  
>  **Chapter 2:** Kevin told the team just after two and _then they called Allison’s lawyer at 02:47._ They get the call back with news at 4:35, as normal, but now with a _hour and a half minute wait_ instead of forty.  
>  **Chapter 3:** _At 3:15 am, on a cold Saturday morning, the call was received from a downtown station on the outskirts of Baltimore city centre. People were being yelled at, plans were being set in motion and a college sports team were making their way towards the city by the sea._  
>  _But the damage had already been done._
> 
> *Jazz hands*
> 
> Anyway, thank you for such a warm response! I will give more credit in the next chapter. ;) Unbetad as usual, let me know if you see any crazy mistakes here or in previous chapters. 
> 
> Warnings for Nathan being a sadistic fuck and giving horrible advice to eight year olds. 
> 
> See you on the other side fam!

_Many may look at the legacy of the Butcher and call my work unclean. An emotion fuelled mess; violence for violence’s sake._

_And that would be true._

_I make them scream Nathaniel, I make them writhe and squirm until the very end._

_There is no quick death under my blade._

_But it is no means as uncalculated or erratic as your ‘mother’ might like to think it to be._

_For you see, there is something truly beautiful in seeing how far a scream can stretch._

_It leaches into the hearts of those near it. It travels along an invisible vine, into living things that I will never see even pass above the roof of my shop._

_And when the voices overlap, they morph to create this sweet symphony of fear._

_And nothing corals the mind tighter than fear, Junior._

 


	5. An Arrow that Rings True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The FBI begin the raid on the Wesninski residence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop! 2k update. Also, I'll be posting another interlude with this one for Ch.6. Sorry it's so short. I wrote them as a couplet monthsss ago and I think they kind of fit here. :') Think of it as a kind of character study. ;) Chapter 7 is already like 4.9k and unfinished so expect that soon. 
> 
> If the times seem wacky, again, check my notes in the last chap for the explanation. :3c
> 
> Warnings for allusions of gun violence and a semi graphic death? It's only one sentence but. . . Spoilers in the End Notes.
> 
> To finish, can I just say that I love you all so much? Thank you for reading and sticking by me. I read and fangirl over all your comments daily. I'd have given up long ago without all your good vibes, so thanks again. This chapter is dedicated to you, hope it's okay. And thanks for reading! See you on the other side.
> 
> (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

At 3:15 am, on a cold Saturday morning, the call came in to the local police station.

The call was successfully forwarded to the right FBI division by 03:28

And as the clock turned over to 03:45, Agent June France’s phone lit up the dark of her bedroom with a sharp thrill.

. . .

June had not been able to sleep, mind still mulling over the fact that a monster was back on their streets. 

She knew it wouldn't be long before the rippling effects of her decision were felt.

She didn't expect it quite this soon though. 

They had organised for there to always be a member of their team on call for the next few weeks. Even with no new leads and nothing new to go on, no one felt secure in leaving it unmanned. 

Browning was currently still on duty, taking the night shift. He was notoriously hard headed and thought himself in high regard. Daring to call Frances at such early hours, barely off her shift, would be for no small reason.

The phone felt ten tonnes heavy when picked up. 

“Agent Frances. What have you got Browning?”

There was a heavy crackling pause before he answered. The background noise was far too active for four o'clock in the morning.

“A call just came in from. . a lawyer affiliated with a college Exy team from. . South Carolina. If their lawyer’s accusations ring true, this could be big. We need you here asap. Jason is currently organising a SWAT team to storm the Wesninski residence in twenty.”

It was such a non-sequitur at first. Wesninski had no known affiliations with anything to do with the sporting scene, let alone. . Exy? But then her mind flicked back to that strange money trail leading down south. . .

“I'm on my way. What was the tip, Browning?”

She was already in the process of sliding back on her ruffled suit and kicking on her work shoes. She had a spare outfit in her locker at the station if she had time later and this dragged on.

“Less of a tip, more of a demand. Apparently one of their team’s star players went missing in a riot that took place in Binghampton this evening. His name is Neil Josten, officially.”

“. . and unofficially?”

“They're claiming that his. . his ‘birthname’ is Nathaniel Wesninski. And that he had numerous missed calls from a Baltimore area code when they recovered his belongings.”

June felt ice stab her chest. She had to pause with her keys stuck in the apartment door, not-quite closed.  

Little Nathaniel, with floppy red hair and bright blue eyes. Little Nathaniel standing on the stairs and looking at her with big scared irises and fidgeting fingers. 

A dark, blank expression on his young face the moment his father's hand encapsulated small shoulders.

Little nine year old Nathaniel Wesninski who had disappeared along with his mother over ten years ago. Nathaniel and Mary who had both been unofficially pronounced as ‘dead’ by the FBI division when nothing came up for months. Not a trace after months of scoring through airport security footage, and car dealership firms; looking for a chance to save them, for a chance to obtain enough solid evidence to shut down the Butcher’s rein for good.

Nothing but the final photograph of mother and child, from an FBI security detail the day before they disappeared, entering their home one last time and not coming back out.

“I'll be there in five.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

. . .

A mere twenty minutes later found Agent Frances decked up in bullet proof gear and wired into the audio line the SWAT team were using. 

Most of her team were similarly decked up as they sat in the armoured vehicle a few blocks from the house. 

“We do all know this count be a fake lead and we are rushing into nothing right?”

“Can it Towns,” Browning muttered.

Jason Towns looked up from where he was scribbling something in his notebook. 

“I'm just saying, Wesninski has barely been out for twelve hours. If this is nothing the damage could be irreplaceable. . . Not to mention if it's true, Nathaniel is of Hatford blood and we just stopped them from entering the country. We could have war on both fronts.”

Frances didn't bother to look up from where she was flicking through the security footage surrounding the house.

“All fine points,” Browning responded, “but there is squat we can do about it. Just knuckle down and prepare for a sleepless weekend.”

Towns groaned from his place in the corner, but went back to scribbling in his notebook if the renewed scratching sound was any indication.

Frances continued to flick through the surveillance feeds. All was quiet.

_ “Ready and in position. Awaiting your instruction ma’am.” _

Frances settled on the maximised image of the front lawn. The the red laundry van was barely visible from the small window, where the camera was broadcasting the street from.

“Okay,” she finally speaks. “On my mark. Remember, subdue wherever necessary but you are permitted to use deadly force if there is resistance.”

“ _ Loud and clear Ma’am.” _

The night appeared sleepy and silent from the feed.

“. . .Three. Two. One. . . Go.”

They swarmed out onto the streets from the blood, red truck like cockroaches. Dark, hulking and silent.

She watched as they quickly rammed down the door and entered the house. 

At this point there was little the outdoor cameras could do to illustrate what was happening inside. All there was to do was wait and listen. 

(The truth of the matter was, body cameras did not facilitate this line of work. It left too much room for potential lawsuits and removed the anonymity of a black mask. For every operation their lack hindered, their absence aided in tenfold).

(Didn't make this part any easier though).

Not twenty seconds after they broke down the door the shooting started. Everyone in the armoured vehicle sat tensely as they awaited to see how it would end. 

“ _ There's-”  _ a young sounding voice huffed on the line. _ “I've found an open entrance to some kind of . . basement. This wasn't on our blueprints.”  _ Bang, bang. _ “It’s accessible from a trapdoor in the kitchen. It appeared to have been disguised by the floor pattern” _

_ “Roger. Do not pursuit without backup. R4, R3, you're with me.” _

There was a visible tension within the enclosed space of the vehicle . A basement. They'd originally suspected the possibility of something like that, but as the various house calls and raids had never shown anything up, they'd concluded that there must be an offsite somewhere where the Butcher completed his work.

The answer was literally below their nose all along.

“It means something doesn't?” Towns asked the compartment. “That we found it now of all times?”

His only answer was silence and the sound of gun violence down a muffled line.

A particular loud explicative brought all their attention back to the the audio line.

Frances stared at the computer screen, where the only sign of what was happening inside was the broken door and the moving shadows in the windows.

Frances thought she could hear deranged laughing in the background.

_ “Put your hands up and step a-away!” _

The laughing - and yes it had to be laughing now - kicked up a notch before it abruptly broke off and the line dissolved into illegible static once again.

Browning shuffled restlessly.

At twenty minutes past four on a cold crisp Saturday morning, eight minutes after the FBI’s SWAT team invaded the Wesninski residence, it was over. 

_ “Building secure. Nathan Wesninski is dead. We have found the boy. He is alive. . for now but . . we need paramedics down here now. He might not make it.” _

. . .

As the SWAT team had burst into the room, the scene that met them was something that would join their long list of nightmares. It wasn’t often you were faced what should be a corpse moving like that.

As Nathan Wesninski faced towards the the SWAT team that had barged in, unannounced due to good insulation and loud occupants, he did the one thing you should never do. 

Take your eyes away from your victim.

. . .

_ Somewhere around the two hour mark since entering his childhood home, Nathaniel had gotten his hands on a knife. _

_ It was Lola’s. _

_ She had a whole array of them that she had been using to idly make marks along clear patches his skin, as the Butcher had his own fun.  _

_ That particular one was left by his waist, barely forgotten and begging to be taken. _

_ Snatching it was as easy as it was painful. (But what was more pain at this point?) _

_ So, weapon hidden safely behind his back, he waited. _

_ There were many almost-opportunities, in the hours and minutes between blackouts and screaming and laughing.  _

_ But he wasn’t looking for almost. _

_ They had truly broken him beyond repair. No help was coming, and even if he did somehow manage to incapacitate everyone in this room, he wasn’t going anywhere. _

_ He had one knife. _

_ He had one chance of surprise.  _

_ His only countdown was the one leading to his death; so surely he had hours. _

_ Hours to wait for the perfect shot. _

_ Hours to find the perfect weak spot. _

_ He may not be leaving this room alive. _

_ But neither was his father. _

_ His eyes never left his mark. _

_. . . _

_ And then the moment came. _

. . . 

The underground level of the Wesninski house was a catacomb of doors and hallways. There was one entrance from the kitchen, one from the garage and one that resurfaced at the loading docks a few miles away. 

That was the exit that Mary and Nathaniel had used to escape from almost ten years ago. 

The SWAT team barged in through a door a short walk from the kitchen. They had quickly stopped checking closed doors and instead followed the echoes of screams and laughter.

The cellar door concealing the scene behind, was heavy and unlocked and provided a birds eye view of the scene, a few steps below.

Upon their entrance, three sets of killers’ eyes moved to regard them.

“Put your hands up and step a-away!”

There was blood everywhere. The room stank of burning flesh.

DiMaccio, Nathan’s right hand man, moved from where he was holding down the. . boy’s shoulders, to the Butcher’s right side, as an obvious attempt to sheild his boss from the danger they presented. 

The woman, turned her knife towards them, but didn’t attack, yet.

One of the rookies’ guns shook slightly as Nathan gazed calmly at her, eyes just about visible around DiMaccio’s hulking form.

The room was silent.

“Ah, Gentlemen,” Nathan Wesninski began, as if he hadn’t just been caught red handed, “to what do I ow-”

Like a roll of film that had be caught in a snag, the scene changed. 

The onlookers looked on in confusion at the knife that now stuck out of Wesninski’s left eye.

The black haired woman screamed as his body fell to the floor. DiMaccio turned to look down at his former boss, uncomprehending and frozen. A boy giggled softly to himself before succumbing to unconsciousness. The SWAT team used this brief chance to spur into action, gaining the upper hand and detaining the remaining group.

The only one not to have a reaction to all of this, was the man himself.

Because he had been killed instantly. 

. . .

Nathaniel Wesninski crashed two times in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and once there. He was to be in sugary for over five hours, which would then got extended to six, then seven.

As he was loaded onto the stretcher and carried out of the house, the FBI team arrived at the scene proper. 

As June watched the ambulance disappear into the distance, red light glaring in the darkness, Browning answered to the phone to the lawyer that had been haranguing him for the past hour. 

The only belongings Nathaniel Wesninski had left on his person, was a pair of keys and a blood crusted wallet. 

A harried paramedic had shoved towards her as they went about stabilising the boy and loading him into the vehicle. They now lay within her clenched hands, separated into separate plastic evidence bags.

The wallet held a few hundred dollar bills and loose change, along with a student ID card for one Neil Josten - who had noticeably fake brown hair and brown eyes - and a slightly rumpled business card for one David Whymack, college coach of the Palmetto Foxes.

. . .

At half four am on the Saturday, the tenth of March, over six hours since the riot had begun, it was finally finished.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Spoilers:_  
>  Nathan Wesninski gets stabbed in the eye with a knife and dies. Also, I'm a proud mama. :3cccc
> 
> On that note, you kids wanna buy some memes? 
> 
> **Nathan:** Junior, let me see what you have.  
>  **Nathaniel:** A knife!  
>  **Lola:** No!
> 
> I did a thing! See no more angst! :'D  
> Original [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6gBu2Zd7Bc), educate yourselves.
> 
>  **SWAT Team, muffled in the background:** Oh my god, why does he have a knife.


	6. Interlude: Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Control that holds its victim tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more bad advice for young minds. Stellar parenting guys.

_ Listen well Abram.  _

_ Murder should always fulfill a purpose.  _

_ Never create violence for the sake of violence, that is for the animals. _

_ It should never be done because of emotions, but because of a desired outcome. _

_ That is where your father and I differ.  _

_ True, he uses violence and murder to control his kingdom, something that I could respect. _

_ But he also finds joy from it, draws it out simply because he wants to. _

_ Unless you are making a direct point to someone, unless it's for information or coercion, death should not be like that.  _

_ Kill them first, decorate their bones for an audience later. _

_ Because the longer you leave something like that alive, the more chance it has to turn on you. _

_ Dead is dead, who cares about what it feels as you deliver it.  _

_ A thing’s a thing no matter how you make it dance. _

_ Don't forget that. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, I know that Nathan is the devil incarnate. But you ever think about how many of Neil's deep rooted issues are because of his mother?


	7. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew drifts. The bus drives on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Hello again everybody! One day I will get this all done. But I haven't given up yet.  
> I had written about 6k for these two chapters, but I wasn't happy with them so I just. . started again. I was going to publish the original excerpt as is within this timeframe, but lo and behold I changed the whole thing. A little bit at least. Not so much of a what as a how. The story is basically completely planned out, just got to write it all!  
> Anywhoooo. This one is for everyone who's been cheering me on in the comments and anyone amazing enough to come back for another read. (And also my sister who's been like my number one fan in all this). I'm sorry if the writing changes at all from chapter to chapter? I have been writing this on and off for a long time. :')  
> Love you guys! See you on the other side. xx  
> ~Not Beta read, excuse the inevitable mistakes.
> 
> EDIT: Ah! Almost forgot. Chapter Warnings: allusions to Andrews past: thoughts of death, abuse, Cas, etc. But nothing new and not in explicit detail. If you didn't already know his past, I guarantee confusion. ;)

Everything felt unstable. 

Anger ran hot and cold. Images blurred in and out of each other on a constant loop, unable to grab hold. 

There was a steep drop. Puffs of cigarette smoke swaying into nothingness. A smile that could shatter teeth. 

A promise left unbroken and yet-

Shards digging in. 

. . .

Andrew spent his whole life climbing.

Suspended in darkness.

A mountaineer, under equipped and bare, scaling a glass, brittle building with nothing but fingers and toes gripping sharp edges and squeaking along slick panes, inch by inch. 

A rope connected him from somewhere above. Unseeable. Miles in the distance. It had been there since the beginning. A tether keeping him afloat and holding him prisoner.

There were times in his life when he klinged to it. Where he let go of the glass and swung there, eyes shut into a world of his own making.

There were times where he gripped it with both hands and he tried to walk horizontally towards the nothingness. Towards the possibility of salvation. Of a ledge he could sit upon.

There were times that he hacked at it with all he had.

The air was always silent and still. It seemed to absorb the sounds that echoed off its edges. Each breath, push and struggle both as loud as a gunshot and as silent as a corpse.

The darkness stretched its long limbs into the distance, cool and indifferent. It bathed everything in grayscale, wispy lines and blurry angles.

As a child, nothing scared him more than staring into its depths below. As an adult, that fear made him feel almost alive.

And now, he was falling without a sound. 

Air rushing past him. Shards digging into muscle.

Not knowing which way was up. Not knowing if his rope would eventually unextend and save him.

Not knowing if the line would stop so abruptly his neck would snap.

Not knowing if it was already broken too.

. . .

Andrew came back to himself with a blink, coarse, cheap fabric itching at his skin. 

He stared at crosshatches of the seat resting just beyond his nose, counting the fabric tufts in futility, grounding himself to the moment.

He could hear the voices of Bee lapping over themselves in his head, as they recounted different steps for different meditative practices. To relax his body. To become hyper aware. To calm his mind. To step away. To be here.

They in themselves had become a method and mantra of their own.

Once the counting had changed from a frantic twitch to a boring lull, he began to step back into his body. He systematically adjusted from his head to his toes, feeling each body part twitch and relax as he focused on it. His right calf twinged with the prickling ache of sleep and he twisted his ankle from side to side absently.

He had not been asleep for long - if you could call that light doze sleep - but he lay there a while more, listening to the sounds of the bus and its few occupants.

There was a cacophony of voices murmuring back and forth at the front of the bus. Just noticeable above the hum of the engine. 

He could just about make out Whymack’s gravelly tone and Allison’s self assured command amongst the whispers, but even that was not enough to spur him into action. He did not try nor want to listen.

Until the bus stopped and reached its journey’s end, there was nothing to be done by listening. It either was or it wasn’t.

His body felt heavy and slow, as if gravity was acting upon it more than usual, though he knew it was only a byproduct of his emotions. Emotions he was not equipped to catalog.

Control and balance were the things that kept him moving forward since childhood, born out of a need to create something stable in a constantly moving and unstable environment.

At first, he’d only strived for control. If he could not control the things around him, then he would control himself. If he could not control his body, the way it was twisted and coerced, then he could control his mind. If he could not control the emotions within himself that felt too much and strove to crack him open at the seams, then he would repress and conceal them away where no one could find.

Balance was the thing he found along the way as a means to regulate this control and stop himself from breaking in two from his own self inflicted wounds, like a white blood cell attacking its own body from the inside out.

Balance that manifested itself into the shape of deals, both with himself, and eventually, with others.

If you get out of bed now, you can down a whole tub of ice cream by yourself this evening. If you leave the scabs alone today, you can stay an extra ten minutes in the shower. 

If you endure this feeling of weakness, you can experience the feeling of superiority when making a group of hard-edged, orange-tinged punks dance around after a ball they are too slow to predict.

If you give up your time to me, I will take your pain away.

If you can promise to make me feel something like lasting interest, I will stick around for five more years to try.

If you promise me a quick way out, I will let you try to save me.

If you can provide a spine to someone that has none, I will protect you from that of which you run from. . .

In the end, he didn’t know which shook him more. 

The fact that Neil was the first person that Andrew trusted to stand with him, without the need of a sold tether and reason for keeping them together.

Or the fact that Neil understood Andrew well enough to understand that dying still tethered, thus allowing Andrew to break his end of the promise, even at the hand of a unnamed force - with information withheld, details unexplained and unprepared for - even with their nothing being  _ nothing _ , would destroy him like nothing else. 

Neil, even now, acknowledging the weight of Andrews threads and the seriousness of them, when many treated them as empty comments and forgettable memories. 

Deals from a mind that didn’t know how to delete any memories.

It all swirled around now inside, on this cramped, humid bus.

After Cas, he had promised himself he would never feel something as slippery as reliance on another person again. He would not regret what he would not give power over to.

But the thing was, devil or saint beneath that face, Cas never knew him. Never came to understand him at his core. She provided him with hot meals, sweet cookie and honey coated smiles, but she never asked him about his other houses. She never asked about his pain. She never sought out ways to bond with him on a deeper level.

As an adult looking back, it seems absurd to him that someone so supposedly caring and perfect could miss all the warning signs Andrew was emitting.

Washing sheets at three am and coming to breakfast the following morning with deep, dark eyebags. The first aid kit raided so regularly yet restocked without a word. Batman badges littering his forearms but instead of questions, asking what designs he might like next. A foster son becoming more still and withdrawn, especially whenever the biological son walked in the room.

This is what he got instead: a surely teen always greeted with a smile but never a concerned frown. Questions asked about school but no questions inquired after his heart.

Maybe it was as genuine a  _ misunderstanding _ as Cas being a loving person, but naivety making her blind to the world around her. 

But did that remove her as the cause for his biggest heartache and most severe abuse?

In the first home he had where abuse reigned supreme, he stayed there a while because he was simple too young to understand what was happening to him. But then this confusion manifested into aggression and a hypervigilance of personal space. It ended with him punching a seven year old classmate after an errant, absent minded touch and breaking a nose. And then with kicking and punching of a random adult who tried to sit him down and talk afterwards. 

The family he was with did not put up much of a fight to keep him, simply sighting him as a dangerous child and when pressed suddenly wanting him gone. So as no investigations were opened and damning deeds discovered, of course.

This experience taught Andrew the most important lesson he could in his life; the means by which to escape the bad places. 

All he had to do was act out in school and get in fights and get unwanted attention from concerned parents and distressed faculty members. His foster family would be called and drop him like a hot potato. No pain no fowl. 

And then there was Cas. 

Her beautiful smile a beacon of such light he had never had shined above him. 

Triangular cut jam sandwiches. Untorn, new school books just for him. New shoes that actually fit, as white and shiny as her smile.

A room all to himself. Until it wasn’t.

And no matter how lovely she was, the moment the abuse started, he lashed out at school without any of his control this time. Pounding into another kid who brushed passed him and sneered the word gay like it was something repulsive. 

There always had to be a catch.

But unlike all the others, she stood up for him. She went to the parent-teacher meeting and listened attentively as they told her of his deplorable behaviour. She simply smiled at them and at him and cooked Andrew a warm meal once they were home. 

Her love kept him from acting out again in ways that he would get caught. Kept him actively trying to stay. 

Kept him no longer trying to escape.

And so Drake’s abuse cut deeper and stayed longer than anything he had felt before.

After Juvie, despite Aaron’s curiosity and Nicky’s enthusiasm, Kevin’s obsession and Renee’s kindness, Abby’s beating heart and Whymack’s gruff care, no one could quite penetrate the armour he had built around himself. 

Some of them had gotten close, some not at all. 

Bee got as close and into his head as anyone. First doing her bit to gain his trust, hanging in there even when he shunned and mocked her repeatedly. And then proceeding to take everything he said at face value. Not only believing but encouraging him, giving him method upon method to not only control himself, but let himself breath. 

But where she asserted herself as his life coach and guiding hand, Neil asserted himself as an equal. An instance of give and take in equal measure.

Where Bee listened to everything he said and become his most solid confidante, Neil needed no explanation to see under his armour and stare him directly in the eye.

Every person he had ever bonded with since Juvie had a solid tie to him. A solid deal, a solid purpose. A family member. A protector. A patient.

Neil was nothing. 

If Andrew was a climber, someone who needed solid ties to people to be stable, then Neil was the air around him. Uncatchable, untameable, but something he found he needed to breath.

And he could feel it growing thinner. 

. . .

  
  
  



	8. Closeness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths are learned. Nicky connects with family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last two chapters have been brought to you by the tunes of Radiohead. I hope you all enjoy. :)
> 
> EDIT: Chapter Warnings: mild for this series. Talk of Seth's death and Neil's possible death.

Nicky began to awake slowly to the sounds of voices echoing off of each other, not too far away. His brain was foggy and slow. He felt vaguely cold and his muscles ached  _ everywhere _ . 

He swayed his head and shoulders from side to side in a muddled haze. Nicky knocked against something bony but warm on his right, almost like a body. He began to snuggle down into the comically small being. Maybe it was an elf, come to keep him company until Santa arrived. .

Snap. Snap.  _. . Slap! _

He jumped in his skin, bouncing bolt upright and briefly out of his chair. His eyes showed a muted blurry backdrop before focusing on what appeared to be the interior of the exy bus. 

Looking to his right he saw a pale and very ruffled Aaron glaring at him. 

Oh. 

He smirked. 

“Ooh, did the baby midget not-”

He was cut off from his light hearted tease when Aaron slapped a hand over his mouth with an eye roll. Nicky raised his eyebrows and Aaron sighed silently, looking put upon. He raised a finger to his mouth for silence and slowly took his hand away before gesturing towards the front of the bus. 

And as Nicky turned to look at what he was pointing towards, it all started to come back to him. A long bus ride. A talkative Andrew playing in the goalie uniform. A victory. A defeat. A family member missing.

Oh.

The sudden change in mood made nausea want so desperately to crawl up his throat and call out its grief.

Alison was standing up ahead, her face grief stricken and talons clenched tightly on the back of Whymack’s chair as he drove. It seemed without the support she may collapse. 

She was on the phone

All the upperclassmen were gathered around her. Renee was sitting on the edge of the chair where Abby sat, clutching the fabric of Alison’s sleeve with both hands and staring into her eyes. 

Matt’s whole body seemed to be vibrating with nerves from where he sat two rows back from the pair. Nicky could see him standing up, rubbing at Dan’s shoulders in the seat before him. Start to move, stop. Sit down again. Rub his free hand through his hair again and again. Grip the linked hand he and Dan shared so tightly they both went white for a moment. Start to get up, stop. Start again. Nicky had to look away.

He couldn’t see much of Dan’s ebony skin from behind Matt’s bulky, jittery form, but from the glances he catches of her profile, she looked solemn and fierce.

All that could be heard in the cramped bus space was Allison quite, stuttered half-sentences as she talked into the device by her ear.

“What else have yo-. . . And there’s no way-. . . How long before we ca-. . . I don’t care what they say, we have a right to-! . . Mmhmm. . . Mmhmm. . . Yep, still not listening to a word they say, get the bloody Mayor on the phone if you have to, we’re getting in there. . . Okay. That’s better. . . We’re about. .”

“Thirty minutes away,” Whymack provided, not taking his eyes off the road.

“We’re thirty minutes and in bound. There better be a right big,  _ happy to see us _ welcoming party when we get there. . . Yes. Get us some rooms at the closest hotel to the hospital . . Ten odd beds. . . . Yes. . Thank you Henderson. Don’t stop bugging them and get as much information as you can out of the vultures . . . Okay, we’ll see you soon. .” 

Alison let her hand drop slowly, head held high, browsed creased and eyes slightly watery. She let go of both the expensive phone and the cheap headrest at once, bringing them up to cover her face. In an instant Renee was there, guiding her face into her shoulder and holding her steady. 

Nicky thought he could hear her  _ sob _ from where he sat. Alison always-put-together Reynolds  _ sobbing _ . He couldn’t think. He couldn’t feel. Were they too late.  _ Were they too late.  _

His head swiveled around trying to find comfort. Someones eyes to look into. 

To his right Aaron was staring out of the window, face blank and unseeing.

When Nicky turned around in his seat, he briefly caught sight of Andrew, apparently still sleeping, his back a solid, black unmovable wall to it all. Departed and absent. 

Just as Nicky was starting to spiral, his eyes connected with Kevin sitting in the seat behind them, only two feet away. His face was white as a sheet and his eyes were almost vacant. His hands wrapped up tight and still in the netting of Neil’s half knitted racket. 

Nicky tried to find the words. Any words.

“He. . He. .”

“Alison!” Matt cried out in a hoarse voice, strained and quiet and broken. As if this giant man could no longer make such a booming sound. “Is he still alive!”

For a few moments all their worst fears had become reality. They’d already lost one friend this year to overdose. But this, it hit hard and it hit fast. 

Death was a slow, aching thing to those left behind. When Seth died, it felt like a part of them died too. Maybe they always fought. Maybe no one could get on with him for more than two seconds.

But he was a fox.

Seth’s was the kind of death filled with hard regret and desolate unfinished maybes. It was the kind of death you had to ignore the existence of least it ate you up from the inside with guilt. Nobody could ever tell Seth what to do, nobody could ever move him, nobody could ever relate to him. . but. . What if. . ?

Death. It never got any easier with practice.

Neil. Neil Josten whirled himself into all their lives like a firework. He put a fire in their souls. A protectiveness in their hearts. He mended old broken bridges between Nickey and his family. He built new ones between them and the other foxes. 

He was a too bright point in all their lives to be-

“Yes,” Alison’s voice was suddenly strong and sure. When Nicky looked back towards the front, he could her looking daringly at all of them, legs still unsteady and hands still holding stiff on Renee shoulders, but eyes filled with conviction. “He’s still alive.”

Nicky felt his heart sore with the painful relief of it. He felt the urge to laugh slowly rise up in him. The whole bus seemed to ruffle for a minute around him and settle. Matt fell back into the seat once more.

But then it soon became apparent Alison was not done. Her body seemed to fold a bit tighter on herself, but her voice, it was as steady and strong as before.

“. . for now. He’s alive for now.” Renee stroked Alison’s face softly on one side; Nicky couldn’t tell if it swept away moisture or not. “He’s currently in surgery and no one knows if he will, or won’t, make it out again. And even if he does. . .”

She trailed off stiffly and it was like the whole bus had hold its breath. Only one person was brave enough to breach it.

“And even if he does, what Alison.” As Nicky whipped his head towards Aaron. His face was cool and impassive but. Nicky could see a slight tremor in his fists. Nicky hesitated and then put a tentative hand over his on the seat. Aaron did not shuck it off. “What state is Josten in right now. What do you know.”

Alison swayed into Renee like an old willow tree, before finding her voice once again and beginning to tell them all everything she could. 

Soon Nicky was gripping his cousins hand tight with glistening tear tracks running unabashedly down his face, wetness settling in a pool by his collar. 

She wove a tale of gunfire, sirens and black and yellow suits. She told them of conspiracy’s and plans in place by the government. Of a team that hit hard and fast, but just a little bit late. 

Of a running boy who could no longer run. 

All the while Andrew sat in the back oblivious to it all. Nicky knew he couldn’t still be asleep. There was too much noises, there was too much chatter. The sunlight was streaming in. 

But still he lay there unchanged every time Nicly tried to catch a glimpse. Unmoved by even this. 

As highway changed to city lights, and darkness into day, the Foxes finally reached their destination. 

. . .

_ Saturday, March 10th _

_ 6:30 AM  _

_ Baltimore  _


	9. City Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive in Baltimore. At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the new comments everyone! Cranked this out in no time. Let's see how long my writing streak will last. :')
> 
> Chapter Warning: Discussion of Neil's scars in detail.

As Andrew continued to stare at the fabric, lost to the world around him, the steadily growing brightness of the cabin soon became apparent to him. 

With an insurmountable effort he craned his head around to catch a glimpse out the window. 

Sometime in the last few minutes, the open stretch of sky, that could be visible from a motorway, had been swallowed by the silhouettes of buildings and traffic lights, moving past the bus at a steady pace. 

As the city crept slowly from night into day, the buildings too were stuck in a limbo of their own. 

Many windows in the structures fell into obscure, black emptiness, allowing the slowly rising sun to reflect off glass, brick and stone, with a wave of light passing over them and away.

But in the gray of early morning, pockets of yellow and white artificial light spilled through at irregular intervals. Little worlds inhabited by early risers and night dwellers, intermittently lighting up the gloom.

Soon the sun would rise to its peak and the lights would become obsolete. Soon the dark pockets would be lit up and their inhabitants slowly awoken.

But for now they fought for dominance in clusters of bright lights and hollow darkness.

Andrew clenched his fist into the fabric before him, breathing for a while. It was almost time to act and face the reality the night had wrought.

He sat up, silently and swiftly, giving no visible indication of how much that action cost him. His momentum landed him sitting in the window seat and ignoring the ghosts smiling down at him from headrests above. 

He stared at the city for a while, seeing for the first time the place where a small Abram was formed and learned the urge to run. 

A thousand cities traversed, all to come back to that the first one in the end, one way or another.

He could still make out the presence of voices talking over one another sparingly, at front of the bus. 

It continued not to catch his interest. 

The truth, was as black and white, as a yes or no. 

Either Neil Abram Joston was alive. Or he he was dead. Either he would survive or he would die from what the night had taken from him.

Andrew was not interested in the gossip of it all. 

He did not trust Allison as much as he did not trust anyone. But he knew she had the most power in this situation. Either she had succeeded and they were headed to an ICU or she had failed and they were heading to a morgue. If Neil was not in the custody of any officials at this moment, Andrew was not disillusioned enough to expect him to still be alive.

For all the lies that Neil slipped passed Andrew’s radar, there were some truths he could not and did not hide from Andrew.

Sunrise. Abram. Death.

Scars. Abuse. Reflection and revulsion.

No one had mapped the scars littering Neil’s body like he did, not even Neil himself. 

First there were fresh clean lines that littered his chest and torso, methodically placed and sadistically arrayed. A crisp number four sealing the transaction.

Beneath them there were tears and gravels burns, from a body being dragged along country and concrete. Ill treated scabs turned into permanent body marks from dirt and infection. Knife wounds that were cut then dragged away, uneven and imprecise. A bullet wound that almost struck gold.

And then still there more marks beneath those layers, both familiar and foreign to Andrew. Marks of a different kind of abuse on a child’s body.

Deep jagged canyons that cut into his lower stomach, deforming the area from their repetition. 

Hot burns from cigarette butts carelessly littered upon arms and shoulders.

An imprint of a clothes iron, stretched with age and growth, folding around his body, much bigger than it ought to be.

A smile that would take over the face in times of stress and hands that would try to claw it off.

Andrew knew the reality of the situation they were crawling into more than anyone else here. He did not want to hear the details; he wanted to see them. 

The rest would come later.

. . .

The day quickly wrapped the rest of its city in its clutches and the Fox’s bus pulled into a private parking lot a few blocks from the general hospital.

A harried looking, bespectacled man walked beside two straight suited individuals that just reeked of ‘cop’ to Andrew’s sensitive nose. 

The first agent was a middle aged gentleman somewhere on the cusp of forty; either looking very good for his age or very bad. He had tan soaked skin that could not quite hide his Caucasian complexion. His eyes were shrewd, his brows thick and sculpted to his frown. His black hair was thin, coarse and contained highlights of pure silver.

The second agent was noticeably younger, Latinex and female, in comparison. Noticeably so, because her position at the spearhead of the entourage and her confident turn of head, marked her as the superior officer on site. The slight sneer on Mister Eyebrows face when he glanced at her, both aided in confirming this and added another personality attribute to his character. Seasoned cop, hardened pessimist and misogynistic bigot.

The knives itched slightly under his armbands before he settled again.

Some thorough side glances allowed Andrew to pick up on a few more agents loitering around the area not far from them, foiling only the stupid into thinking they were civilians. Stiff, overly animated and seemingly concerned with only themselves.

Here they were, a white bus, half full and painted with an obnoxiously neon orange paw print on each side, being approached by armed individuals in black suits in an open, empty lot. If there were any real passerbyers around, they’d be gawking, taking pictures or walking swiftly in the other direction. 

Yet not a glance. Boring.

As the trio finally reached the doors to the bus, Whymack started to pull the old lever that would open them and Andrew made his move. 

Andrew was generally not built for speed like someone like Neil. Where as Neil depended on speed and evasion to counter his enemies both on and off court, Andrew was built more like a wall. Unmovable, solid and with a bit of bite.

That’d didn’t mean his only speed was a slow crawl however.

With everyone else cautiously staring out of the bus windows at their guests, Andrew used the moment to slip past them all and get to the steps first, beating Whymack to the punch.

“Jesus kid, slow down-” Andrew sidestepped Whymack’s outstretched hand, that wished to rest upon his shoulder either as some kind restraint or comfort, and stared up at the three now slightly startled faces, and latching on to the woman’s.

“Take me to Neil.”

“Um,” She started, taken aback.

“What the f-,” Mister Eyebrows chimed in gruffly before she could formulate some kind of a response to that. “Stand down midget, this is a highly sensitive case, and you’re not in any place to be giving orders around here. The Wesninski boy is not who he lead you to believe he was, when living with you.”

“Take me to Neil,” he repeated.

“Andrew,” Whymack whisper-shouted. “We just want to see our teammate,” he said in a calm voice to the agents. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Take me to Neil. Now.” Andrew’s muscles twitched with the effort of not following that statement through with something physical. The way Mister Eyebrows’ face darkened said he picked up on Andrew’s mood too. 

“Okay, enough,” Ms Superior Officer interrupted before things could escalate, stepping between Andrew and the pig. “Let’s start again. I’m Special Agent June Frances of the FBI and this is my colleague Special Agent Tom Browning. We are currently leading the investigation involving your friend and teammate’s abduction, and subsequent recovery. We have become very acquainted with your lawyer,” she gestured to the squirrelly man at her left, “and he has informed us that you rejected our offer to contact you in due course, and instead wished to travel all the way here to Baltimore as soon as you could. Unfortunately, with your friend still in surgery, sensitive matters that still need to be resolved and topics that cannot be discussed in the open, as well as your lack of. . relative status, we do not have much for you here yet. We suggest you go to a hotel and wait for us to-“

“Take me to Neil now,” Andrew growled this time. “I will not ask again.”

Even hearing her say he was in surgery, it was not enough. He could not trust anything they said until he saw Neil with his own two eyes. The agents don’t know how lucky they were that they hadn’t implied a different scenario. It was the only thing keeping him from putting a knife into someone’s eye.

“Andrew.” It was Renee this time, spoken firmly in her soft voice. A sly glance backwards confirmed that somehow all the foxes had found a way to cram themselves behind Whymack so they could watch and listen to the proceedings.

Renee’s eyes implored him to keep it from getting violent. He ignored her and turned to lock eyes with agent Frances once more. 

“Andrew is it?” She started. Her attempt at soothinging him by calling out his name, only served to make the itching get worse. “I understand that you are probably very close with. . Neil, but it is out of our hands. Even disregarding our serious ongoing investigation, he is in critical condition at the moment. Only family would be permitted to consult and visit with hi-“

“We’re his family!” Nicky shouted suddenly. The loudness and abruptness of his voice caused a few of the ‘tourists’ to scrabble for their ‘vacation purses’ and ‘fanny packs’ and look directly towards them. Ironic since Nicky was the least harmless of them all; except maybe for Abby. “We’re all his family! We’re the only one he has.”

“No, but, you see he was not who-“

“We know who he is,” Dan said firmly, edging her way over to stand directly behind Andrew. “He is a Fox.”

“Come now girly-“ Mister Eyebrows started.

“He is a Fox,” Dan repeated, standing so straight Andrew could feel her towering over him. “We all come from broken homes with broken pasts. We don’t care what you want to call him, what you want with him or what you say he’s done wrong. He is a Fox. We are his Family. You will tell us how he is and you will take us to him.” Andrew could sense her angling her body towards Eyebrows McFuckface for a final send off. “And that’s Captain Wildes to you.” 

That seemed to pull the winds out their sails somewhat. Always trust in Dan to pull them together and make them out as an imposing unit standing strong and not a mess of conflicting ideals scrambling to get some purchase in the situation. 

Their ‘lawyer’ was wisely looking away and staying out of it. Sometimes you needed an official to fight your battles for you while skirting the the edges of legality. Sometimes, it was better for them to not get involved and to have deniability.

Agent Frances sighed and looked towards McFuckface with a pointed question in her eyes. He shook his head profusely at her. She ignored it.

“Okay,” she eventually responded. “I’ll. . see I can see what I can do I suppose. Are you sure you wouldn’t like time to fre-“

“No,” Andrew answered for her, firmly.

She glared at him, before turning to address Whymack still trapped behind his body. 

“Okay, then. David Whymack, I presume? And Ms Reynolds, yes. There is no way this bus won’t catch any attention when visiting the hospital. If you wouldn’t mind giving Kurt over there the keys, and all stepping out, we will arrange another mode of transportation for you all-” 

Deeminging his work to be done for now, and the situation relatively safe, Andrew stepped down and let them all out. He proceeded to ignore everything else and walk half the distance between the bus and their uncaptive, captive audience, pulling out a cigarette.

“-will be a few hours before we know more, but we will get you a private waiting room at the hospital where you will be debriefed in more det-

After two puffs, he snapped the fresh cigarette in his fingers and crushed it beneath his boot on the stone gravel. 

The air was crashing in his lungs and mind again, but he would not let it take him. 

“-if there is anyone who-“

He looked up at the grey sky and let himself feel the air’s cool breath on his face.

“-going to be okay? How wi-“

He watched a few seagulls fly over head and catalogued the scents of the Atlantic Ocean available on the breeze. It reminded him of California.

“-areful with that, please. It’s our rid-“

He began to twirl the lighter in his hands, flipping the lid open and shut.

Open.

Close.

Open.

“-we’ll never give up o-“

Close.

 


	10. Abram - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey of Abram, part one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing on. . Saturday? And already four fully published, new chapters, I'm on a roll! I hope the continuity is okay, I've been writing this fic over almost two years. D: But bare with me as I try something out. ;) Again, shout out to all the new comments and commenters! I read and spaz out over them all, let me tell you.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Neil's past, though pretty vague again.

_ ~3 hours previous ~ _

 

As a child, Nathaniel had perfected a much simpler and effective form of disguise than other kids his age with costumes and wigs and fake mustaches. 

Sacred arts for hiding in plain view, that protected him for precious seconds before until detection became inevitable.

Silence, stillness and diversion.

Before, as an infant without such nuanced bodily control, the sounds he would sometimes hear echoing throughout the giant house, made him a very anxious toddler. 

He did not understand them then; his mind still not developed enough to have a large scope of the surrounding environment or adults moving about him. However, the agonised cries and wrenching screams, that only had a whisper of sound left to them by the time they reached their upper floors, upset him as much as they confused him.

They made his hands feel itchy and his mind scatter, even when all was quiet. He was a ball of constant jitters, the need to move his working body in some small way, constant and demanding. 

He never dashed around the house or banged on the walls. He did not jump or dance or play. He simply twitched and fidgeted with ever moving fingers.

He tugged on bits of his clothes. He clenched at his hair. He spun handheld objects round and around. He clenched at his bare palms and twisted his fingers together into complex knots.

It was movement so ingrained into him that he never noticed doing it.

But after a misplaced iron and a slap on the check from mother, he learned not to fidget anymore.

He learned not to do a lot of things. 

As mother had said, children are to be seen and not heard. As he had devised from experience, it is better to be neither of those things.

Nothing made him as so almost happy as the days where he existed as ghost in his own house.

His parents would host grand parties regularly, where the Butcher would invite over an array of politicians, thugs or businessmen. Mother would alway dress him up well for those.

Sometimes though, he wouldn’t be called down. He’d stay hidden in his room for hours, sitting in waiting and listening for it to end. 

Other times, he wouldn’t be so lucky.

Lola or Jackson or another of the Butcher’s men or bodyguards would go up to his room and he’d know to follow them downstairs quietly and quickly.

When he entered the room, some looked at Nathaniel with fear, others curiosity, and others still with disdain. The nervous politician, the arrogant thug, the twitchy cop, the self assured gang leader. They all had a point to prove to father and he was the chess piece in order to do it. 

He rarely ate at those decadent affairs, too busy being lorded over by the guests and doing his best not to squirm or fidget or yell. 

Growing up in that house, he was no stranger to violent acts being inflicted on his body. Both from father’s sharp knives and mother’s quick reprimands. But the stress and pain from those parties were a different kind of pain that he found hard to become so accustomed to.

It was a fluctuating and surprising sort of abuse. Even on guard, it was hard to see it coming. It was a slice to his neck when father wasn’t looking. A burn with a cigarette when mother was turned away. A paper cut here and a gash there that could come unexpectedly, and from any direction. 

With the threat of a much more bloody punishment waiting below, if he reacted to it, at all.

Because when the Butcher turned his gaze away, it was more dare or invitation to act than ignorance of it happening.

Nathaniel eventually deduced that his role there was twofold. 

Attacking the child of the Butcher painted a very sinister but welcome image. It said to the world, “I am not afraid to hurt innocents,” or even “I have no conscious.” It pooved to the butcher a kind of strength, or at the very least, a lack of weakness.

It’s the ones that had flinched themselves as Nathaniel walked in, the ones whose hands shook and the rare few who never touched him at all that really had themselves to worry for. 

Any hint at you not being as genuine as you were proclaiming to be; any hint you might be double bluffing, unable to go so far as to hurt a young, defenseless child: you were as good as gone.

Just a loose end to be lost in the breeze.

(Was it ‘good’ to feel relief and gratification at seeing someone else fail at this dance, and be sent of the basement, instead of you? Even if they did not return? Nathaniel had never been able to develop enough of a moral compass to figure that one out).

The second part of Nathaniel’s job was to never react to any of it. Weakness, weakness weakness. Nathan hated weakness and that’s all it came down to.

If Neil so much as flinched and his father saw it, or goodness forbid, someone teased the butcher over it, it was a guaranteed ticket to the basement.

So he learned how to both retreat into himself while maintaining hyperaware. Removing his mind from the body while remaining conscious of how it moved and who came to take a bite. Not feel and not let anyone hurt him with surprise.

Remain analytical and self aware without the sticky emotions deciding to take control. To view his body as if it wasn’t even his. Control it as if it were a puppet.

He learned to be silent, he learned to be still. And when those could only do so much, he learned how to divert attention and coerce the mind into reacting to something other. 

A smile here. A tear there. A stealthily knocked over chair. A twirled cutlery knife over an uneaten meal, done with inelegance but definite purpose.

That is until the Butcher caught him at that one night, and decided to teach him a different kind of lesson in the basement instead.

Nathaniel always found it hard to find joy in anything. 

But at the very least, he found hurting to be a nicer than the feeling of being hurt.

In youth, knives were something he adorned as claws in order to scare other predators away. 

It was only after he’d escaped with mother that knives changed from meaning a kind of protection, akin to sharpened fingernails, to a symbol of the Butcher and his men. Only when his mother had taught him the art of a gun to replace the practice of a blade, so ingrained into his veins, did the fear of them really start to set in.

However, having a blade back in his hand. . it was akin to itching at a spot he had ignored for years or extending claws that had lay dormant, but were always there beneath the surface, waiting to be used.

Easier than breathing.

The longer he was tortured, the more Nathaniel was reduced to basic instinct; the further his mind retreated from the body, the more he became aware of his surroundings.

Where silence and stillness would not work and diversion reigned supreme; his screams got so very loud.

It had been child’s play taking a lone blade from Lola’s reservoir, too engaged with her glee of mangling his fingers to keep track of basic math.

It had been almost nostalgic lying there, waiting for an opening while working on keeping his mind sharp. Woking on staying conscious a little longer each time, detaching himself from the pain, detaching himself from the body as if he were seven years old again.

It had been almost fun to watch father gaze at him in his last moments, knowing he had lost. 

It had been almost fun to laugh.

Mother’s teachings had reigned victorious in the end, come back to mock her husband’s dying face.

_ Better to gut a pig quickly, then and there, rather than give it the chance to catch you with its tusks,  _

_ Abram. _

. . .

The sounds of gunshots and sirens, the sway of a moving vehicle beneath his body; it all brought Chris Westly right back to the night he lost it all.

(Or started a journey towards gaining something so much more precious, another part of himself might argue, of finding something like a family).

He wasn’t sure where he was right now, but mentally Chris was back on that rainy Seattle street in November. Frozen with dread and dragged away to a car by one of the only moms he’d ever known. Even if he’d had twenty three different varieties by this point. 

(A mom that was dying slowly from an invisible wound he could not yet recognise).

His body was wet, cold and solid. His long black fringe kept obscuring his vision and itching into his eyes. His nerves were shot, and his precious legs seemed to have forgotten how to run.

It had been many years since Chris had seen his dad in the flesh. When travelling across Europe and Asia, they had only run into him once at the beginning. After that it was just an endless, faceless stream of the Butcher’s men.

But maybe they were only faceless to stop the corpses behind his eyelids from forming names.

He did not understood why they were back in the States. 

It was harder, in ways, to don an american accent once again than any other foreign drawl he had been forced to perfect. He had all but forgotten his old one, and even if he hadn’t, using it would be almost as bad as taking out his muddy green contact lenses. Asking for trouble, regardless that trouble had found them anyway.

They had not returned to this wretched country since the first time they left, almost ten years ago.

Of course he never questioned the reasoning behind, such a move as returning to the one place they had tried so hard to stay away from, out loud; mom always had her reasons. She had kept them alive so far and all that she demanded in return was complete compliance and no questions asked.

Still, as scared as he was to set foot on this soil again, nothing could have prepared him for how  _ fast _ they had been found. And how weird she had been acting beforehand.

They had crossed the border through Canada, bare hours after arriving in on an international flight from Berlin. They had taken a five hour greyhound bus from the city and had arrived in Seattle in time for the sunrise.

After finding a suitable motel and keeping sure Chris had three usables burners and a few extra I.D.s on top of the current one, his mom, Susan, had done something that confused him even more.

She left him alone in the motel room, going out for hours at a time at irregular intervals during the day, while keeping him confined within its small, brown-stained walls. He barely saw her during the days. And even more, she brought back freshly made, _convenience_ _store_ food containers for dinner.

It was bizarre.

Not only was over priced convenience food too expensive and something she’d rather pass up in favour of some cold canned beans or a few dollars worth of cheap 15c noodle packets, but she also treated as if it wasn’t a big deal.

Chris has quickly shut his mouth and did not comment on the change at all, just digged in and enjoyed the expansion of his food palet while it lasted.

Maybe he should have though. 

One other thing that did not come to pass, was Susan ever bringing up the topic of him enrolling in a high school. 

This was not an anomaly, per say. He had gone through identities before where he had not enrolled somewhere, but there was usually a reason for it. Like, only passing through the town or because she wanted him to get a job near her instead.

But as the weeks were starting to pass and Chris had been stuck in that tiny room alone for just as long, he began to grow restless and hoped something would change soon and his mom would stop being so cryptic.  

They always say be careful what you wish for.

He could feel the wound on his side trickling blood, but it was the panic that truly incapacitated him.

There was a steady beeping sound.

“-ris, Chris, Chris,  _ Abram _ ,” he came back to himself suddenly with her slap across the face. She pointed to the row of cars a few ten metres away. “Pick one and get us in the road, they are not far behind-! Move Abram. Now!”

When he met her eyes, they looked demented with urgency. Her eyes were deep with shadows in the dark blue light of the rain. Her loose, blond curls were dark and damp as they stuck to her face, obscuring her edges.

“Yes, mam,” he answered quietly, finding his feet at last and hurrying ahead now to do as she said. 

He would figure everything else out later.

The most important thing was that they didn’t stop moving.

. . . 

_ -eep. Beep. Beeeeeeeee. . . Beep. Beep. Beep. _

. . .

Étienne had been huddled by the dock, waiting, for hours now. 

The sea air was fresh and burning against his dark, contact lensed eyes. The bustle of people moving about the pier was constant, but the sound was almost drowned out completely by the rhythmic moans of the ships horns upon entering or leaving the harbour in the distance.

They’d been separated in the fight with a few of the Butcher’s men almost a day ago now. He had stuck near the city centre of Marseille for a while, calling his mother on one of the burners and sticking to the shadows.

It soon became apparent though, when he almost ran straight into Lola again down the narrow alleyways, that he was just asking to be caught sticking so near, so eventually he’d fled. 

Étienne knew that, before their run in, they were supposed to be getting a ferry somewhere from these docks. He didn’t know to where they were going to or which one of the hundreds boats passing could be their guide - his mother never give him many forewarning details - but he knew it must be close.

It was possible she had decided against this course of action in light of recent events, but it was all Étienne had to go off of. He didn’t know what he’d do if she never showed up. . .

He had liked it here, in France.

It wasn’t often that they came back to the same country twice, but he thought he enjoyed it.

The first time he was here, as a small eleven year old boy called Phillip Boucher from somewhere in northern France, it had been hard because he hadn’t known the language at all then. But they had since traveled to places like Belgium and Luxemburg - places where English could do, but speaking one of their official languages gave them a better cover.

His mother had made him start to learn German too in the last few years, but at his current fourteen years of age, he’d found himself having a better grasp of French, especially as it was the easier of the two, with less complex grammar.

Plus, he’d had a bit more practice.

The reason they were moving at all, he supposed, was just as a precaution because they had been here, in the same town, for almost six months now. 

Étienne had time to go to school and even make a few friends this time - though hopefully his mother didn’t know of that last part.

At first, it felt hard navigating the school system through only a secondary language, as it always did. But the longer he was here, the better he could understand everyone. The better he could answer questions. The better he could  _ talk _ .

Soon, he had stopped translating what he heard, and wanted to say, to and from English, but had started thinking  _ in _ French instead. 

Normally, as they traveled, he would be be assigned the role of the quiet kid in class. Answer questions when asked and be able to participate, but not stand out. When the school was in a different language than English, the more spoke, the more chance people would pick up on him not being as native as he was presumed to be. 

His light brown skin meant it easier for him to blend into foreign cities and cultures as a non-American. But the more he spoke, the more chance of an illusion like that falling apart.

Even in English speaking schools this was true for another reason. A boy of his complexion that spoke English were two separate things the Butcher and his men were searching for. He often put on a fake, imperfect accident to make it seem like English wasn’t his first language.

But after a couple of months in the school, where suddenly everything made sense, where every new word learned slotted into his vocabulary as easily as each time he came across a more complex, new English word he hadn’t known before, the sudden urge to  _ talk  _ had reared its head.

If he failed, it would cause more chance of suspicion, he knew. But if he  _ succeeded _ , he justified to himself, then that’s one more thing that didn’t fit the bill against a child named Nathaniel Wesninski. 

And couldn’t a quiet, untalkative child be suspicious just because less interaction might mean they had something more to hide?

(And so he discovered the joy and the freedom of being able to speak his mind through the use of a language that was not the one he was born into). 

And so, for the first time in his life, he started to make friends.

There was Marcelle, a girl with long, black, neatly plaited hair and thin spectacles, who he loved to read French novels with, while debating over different plot points. 

There was Sylvie, with skin even darker than his, and an even quicker wit, from the track team. While there is no way his mom would ever let him stay after school to join it himself - the meer suggestion would probably make her flee the country entirely - Étienne enjoyed racing down the grassy path with her during gym and sometimes during lunch or in the early hours before school started, if he could sneak out.

Then there was Chayce, an unabashed math geek and a person who told him they did not confine themselves by the restrictions of any gender. He learned a lot from them, both in the recognition that it was okay to not have have any romantic or sexual interest in either gender. And also how fun two page long equations could be to write.

Okay, so maybe he didn’t become the most outspoken kid in the class, and maybe he ended up falling in with friends considered skirting the edges of the regular social circles - apart from Sylvie, she could talk circles around anyone, but Étienne never joined in with that, as appealing as it was. He liked his limbs where they were, thank you mother - but he had found a place. 

As this relocation seemed to originally be because his mother was getting cold feet, he had had a few days notice before they were scheduled to leave.

It was the weirdest thing, leaving people behind who were upset when you told them you were leaving.

_ Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz _ .

Étienne startled before making a grab for one of the burners in his duffle, picking up the wrong one before eventually finding it and pressing the green button before the call rang out.

“Hello-”

“ _ Abram _ ,” his mother hissed down the line, “ _ Where are you? Our boat is about to undock. You better be close by. _ ”

“Yes. Yes! I’m just by the pier, where are you I’ll-”

As Étienne stood up and shaked out his taut muscles, he felt a weird mix of relief and . . disappointment. 

Well, what did he to have be disappointed for? His mother was alive and close by. What was he thinking would be the alternative? That he could stay here on his own and go back to his friends at school? That was absurd. How was he to convince the school to re-enroll him without her? How was he to expect him and his classmates safe, when his father’s men had tracked them here not a day ago?

It was a pipe dream and he worked to push it from his brain. 

He stumbled on the uneven ground slightly, when he caught sight of his mother. Her light brown hair was arranged in such a way to obscure half her face, which he knew to mean she must have at least a black eye.

It should not be possible to glare with one eye so fiercely though. 

“There you are Seb,” she exclaimed with loud, fake cheer. “The ship had almost left without you! Aren’t you happy we’re on our way home at last?”

“Ecstatic,” Seb replied with a small, rueful smile, stepping into the new skin seamlessly. 

He left behind all yearnings for friendship and love then and there, to be kept safe by a small, happy french boy named Étienne Dubois.

. . .

“We’re starting to lose him again.”

“Vitals?”

“Dangerously low and not improving, we need to more blood transfusions into him and to get him into surgery as soon as possible, if he has any chance. If we lose him again. . .”

“Okay, keep administering oxygen and I’ll finish hooking him up. John, call ahead again and keep sure they have a room waiting for us and blood bags on hand. It appears we were lucky with something, he’s O Negative. And page Doctor Sanchez.”

They twisted around a corner and continued on as fast as they could safely push past the speed limit, siren still blaring and cars pulling off to the side with their appearance. 

No one could say if it would all be enough.

. . . 

  
  
  



	11. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Misunderstandings, but otherwise okay, nothing to report.

It felt as though they were cut off from the entire world sitting in that small square room.

The walls were a bland off-white colour and the carpet a plush, yet coarse, navy blue. There was a bright, spherical light on the ceiling, shaped not unlike the top-half of a smooth white eggshell trying to morph its way through the fabrics of their roof, like a glitch in a video game. 

This all felt about as real, if not less.

There was only one window in the room, currently being occupied by a quiet Andrew and his pile of half finished cigarette butts, corrugated glass window frame open, the few inches its safety latches would allow, by his head.

There was an equally half-used ashtray beside his cousins knee. Dan had made a point of handing it to Andrew after the first cigarette - barely to be called a butt - went right through the flaky white furnishings of the sill beneath him. Nicky couldn’t tell if Andrew was still missing the ashtray half-of-the-time out of spite, or if he just genuinely didn’t care where the fire landed, and it was just good luck and good placing that allowed any of them to reach their mark at all.

No one had either the galls, nor the emotional stability or functionality, to call him out on it at the moment, more than they already did.

There were currently only six foxes here in the room, in the hospital. And Abby. Though she was outside and down the hall, talking in harsh whispers, and in technical jargon, with another nurse who was spilling enough vivid, yet abstract detail that made Nicky’s head spin. 

Above-the-knee. Clamps. Stumps. Suturing. It was both very medieval sounding and potentially vomit inducing. As much as they all wanted to hear the details - well five of them at least - that was perhaps a little too much detail for now.

Even though they had been there for hours, Neil was still in surgery. The doctors had announced about an hour ago that he was stable though. That the odds were looking better and better.

The only problem was that Neil wasn’t actually a number. 

That the doctors weren’t able to make any promises. 

(Even if the body made it; would the mind?)

Aaron and Kevin had chosen to the go the hotel with Whymack. Once the ‘promising’ news was announced, Abby had started to physically shove Whymack out the door, promising she would call the moment anything changed. 

The sudden drop in tension throughout the room - along with the absent of a jittering Kevin - meant the foxes were soon dropping like flies.

Matt had gone first, his long, tangled body draped over five chairs (and Dan), limbs splayed in awkward and complex angles. Dan was sitting with a calf and a half in her lap, with a few forgotten magazines on top of the mess and her legs crossed while staring ahead in thought.

Nicky could see her eyes starting to slowly  droop. He thought she’d be out any second, even with the valiant efforts of shaking her face and pushing her shoulders back every time she caught herself. 

On the other side of the room, Allison was curled up tight and upright on one chair, her face buried into Renee’s shoulder and feet off the ground. Renee’s eyes were closed, but Nicky couldn’t ever be sure if she was actually sleeping or doing some kind of meditation. She had been like that for most of their time here, but she was also the first to notice whenever anyone entered the room, eyes opening alert and sharp.

As the person stationed to the left of the door, and hence right in front of Renee, Nicky found it both a little unnerving and reassuring. Deadly ninja assassins could enter the room and part of Nicky suspected that they’d be taken care of before he’d even notice them at all. 

Good to know. Or not know at least. Less to worry about.

As exhausted as Nicky was mentally he felt no urge to sleep.

He’d been up late before they’d left for Binghamton and hence he had slept the whole ride there. On top of that, the three or so hours he had from their second bus ride to here, left him awake enough to tackle the day.

Or be awake while it tackled him into the dirt. To-mae-to, to-mah-to.

He sighed. 

Somehow, the ‘good news’ was gradually amping up his anxiety instead of relieving it. 

It was akin to that feeling of when you are a kid and decide the best course of action is to take the bandage off as slow as possible. Nothing was worse than that last edge still barely attached to hair and skin. Your skin was red and irritated and pulled up into a small wobbly mountain, begging for release. You’re eyes knew and your brain knew that it was only a small bit to go until you had relief, but it felt too, too far away.

Nicky needed it to be over. He needed to know for sure that Neil was going to stay alive. Going to be okay. The shape his body was in. . it was bad. But Abby could take care of him,  _ the foxes _ could take care of him.

They were family.

Nicky looked over at his cousin again. 

He didn’t know what to make of his behaviour in the last twelve or so hours. 

Since coming off his medication, Andrew didn’t talk anymore. Unlike when Andrew went onto it the first time, Nicky thought he’d be prepared for the shift in attitude. But he wasn’t. 

Andrew, before the medication, was surly and soft spoken, but he’d always have a few quips to share. When Nicky would let his chatter bug get the best of him and go off, Andrew used to at least glance at him now and again, so Nicky would know he was listening.

When Andrew was on the high of the drugs, he talked non stop. His mood and attention was flighty but parts of him and their relationship felt the same: a quip here, a knowing glance there. He was present in Nicky’s life.

Since Christmas, he felt like a ghost to Nicky. Never speaking unless forced by to Whymack or Neil (ever the uniteor of them all), never looking at Nicky. 

During the fight against Binghamton, it had been a shock to hear Andrew calling out to Nicky. Directing Nicky on  _ plays _ . It had been the most exciting game of his life.

At the time.

But Andrew’s reactions and actions in the aftermath had  _ scared _ him.

He was vocal and he was violent. It took Renee, Whymack and Matt  _ together _ to physically stop him from strangling Kevin to  _ death.  _ He looked two seconds away from pulling a knife on the FBI agents back in the lot. 

But at the same time, despite actions seemingly towards the purpose of reaching Neil, he didn’t appear concerned about his well being  _ at all _ . His face looked impassive, his face looked  _ bored _ . 

While they were crying and stressing and dissecting all the news available on Neil’s condition, Andrew was always close but he didn’t seem bothered by any of it. It could be just any other Saturday morning, he looked unbothered by the cops, by the doctors and their diagnoses. 

He looked unbothered  _ now. _

On top of his homosexuality and flamboyance (and anxiety), Nicky had been diagnosed with ADHD as a small child.

His doctor’s had told him it meant he found it hard to keep his attention focused for long periods of time. He had taken it as a means to explain how he felt it hard to stop thinking and talking about random things out loud, or how to keep still for a long period of time. 

Nicky wasn’t a confrontational person but-

“Do you even care?” Nicky’s voice was loud in the tiny room, Dan’s snores the only other sound in the quiet. “Andrew, do you even care what state Neil is in right now?”

Nicky didn’t know what kind of relationship Andrew and Neil had. There were speculations and there were bets, but Nicky wasn’t convinced.

Neil had done everything to bring the upperclassmen and the monsters together into one unit, but Andrew was the one to remain strictly to the side. 

Renee had mentioned that she’d see them smoking on the roof a few times. Perhaps Neil was trying to convince Andrew to open up to the foxes, they’d gossiped. Maybe they were friends? Maybe they were-?

Or maybe they were nothing. 

From where Nicky could see, it sure looked like nothing. 

It took a while, but his cousin finally turned his head towards Nicky. His eyes looked black and empty.

“No.”

Before Nicky could muster some kind of response, the doors opened. 

Tension rose.

 


	12. The State of a Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double update: whoop! I don’t know why my mind decided to use my whole three day weekend to block me from writing, only to strike inspiration and keep me up until 4am on a school night (I’m a teacher lol). Aw well, enjoy!  
> Chapter Warning: vague references to Andrew’s and Neil’s past.

It was quiet, now.

Andrew could faintly hear the sounds of traffic far off through the window crack. He could hear the bustle of a hospital through the walls and doors; talking voices, the squeak of trollies, children crying out for comfort, a siren of an ambulance cutting out as it entered the lot.

But it was all muffled. 

It was all white noise. 

It was an almost soothing kind of quiet. The kind where he could almost forget; where he could become submerged in the anonymity and too personal impersonal nature of the noises by the people just out of reach.

Not thinking of the time he went to the doctor’s with a bruised eye and Cas insisted the nurse gave him a lollipop; a nice orange-red one, bright like a flame. 

Not reminding him of the time he visited an emergency room the previous fall; a stolen blanket draped over his shoulders like a superhero cape. 

Not stuck in the time he was locked in and going through more abuse and a vicious withdrawal that felt like punishment for taking a toxin he never consented to indulge in; blue eyes the only windows he could peer out through in his mind, like windows that pointed towards escape and pipe dreams.

Almost.

Andrew drew in a deep, harsh breath of smoke; the nicotine hitting hard and giving fast relief, his body relaxing into it slightly, his mind clearing to nothing. That soon morphed into the nothing of another memory, of a stolen cigarette and of a carefully careless smile with knowing eyes flooding his vision.

The taste turned sour on his tongue. 

He smashed the barely lit bud into the sill this time. Ashtray, sill, ashtray, sill; glass, paint, glass, paint; destruction, preservereance, destruction, preservereance. Like a dance.

The rhythm and balance of the action was soothing as the smoke inevitably lost the battle. 

Not unlike the small, inexpert but truthful doodles Neil did on his notebooks and hands, when he needed to ground himself in the proof of his existence; Andrew doodled on the unseen white canvas beneath his knees and tried to cleared his mind. 

Tried to be ready for whatever came next.

After continuously twirling the dry, broken cigarette into the poor paint job lost its appeal (the images of similarly shaped scars on a distant body flashing past his eyes), Andrew fiddled with his army style lighter for a moment, before lighting his last cigarette. Perhaps he could keep this one going until it reached the filter; as someone who grew up wanting for much, he was usually loathe to waste luxury items that he had saved for. 

But today was a day for exceptions, wasn’t it.

He did not know what to do about Kevin and their deal; Renee had offered to go with them in his stead when Kenvin made to go with Whymack and Aaron to the hotel, but Andrew told her not to bother. Whymack would take care of them fine on his own.

He had been on the receiving end of many broken deals before, namely Aaron and his frivolous nature with words, which Andrew now knew he never even believed in.

In the past, even when the other party broke it, he always kept up his side regardless. No one truly saw the heavy weight they held.

Except maybe one person.

One person Kevin broke his promise at the expense of and because of.

His deal with Kevin was simple: find something that holds my interest and I will give you protection and my time for the next five years.

It wasn’t Andrew’s fault that, Kevin being Kevin, was too obsessed to ever consider that he could ever mean anything but Exy.

But somehow, Kevin proved them both wrong. He’d found something that both embodied everything Exy, with fox eyes, red hair and even a mirroring obsession, but was more alive than anything Exy had ever shown Andrew. 

And through Kevin’s inaction and conspiracy - and agreeing to a promise that contradicted one he’d already forged two years ago - Kevin may have broken the one piece that could have concealed Andrew’s edges, a pair of jagged, imprecise corners that slotted together perfectly. 

If this was the end, might be just as well to be done with it.

“Andrew.”

Andrew’s focus was brought back to the small room once more. It had been a while since anyone tried to talk to him directly; Renee was invaluable in the sense she could convey a whole conversation with discrete head tilts and nods. 

Andrew hadn’t been sure if Nicky was as alert as he and Renee were; he glanced now at her stiff form that was obviously tuned in on the unexpected conversation.

He was vaguely surprised Nicky had stayed quiet for so long, before the emotion washed away.

“Do you even care what state Neil is in right now?”

What a bold question. 

He was in the mind to ignore it at first, but the wording of it made him ponder longer.

He had been in this room long enough that he had overheard enough to learn the vague details of what he might find once he walked into Neil’s room, dead or alive. 

On top of the inevitable broken bones and scars and bruising, it appeared as if the Butcher had the time to follow through on some of the more grotesque techniques his name had implied. 

It angered Andrew but did not surprise him; and he would not trust anything until he saw it for himself. 

But did he care of what state Neil’s body was in, beyond alive? If Neil survived but had lost some pieces of himself that were deemed valuable by society?

“No.”

Of course not. That would be such a selfish version of care.

He only cared of what Neil felt about it: of how Andrew could keep him steady and move him forward in the ways Neil would strive and care for and tell him he wanted.

The door opened and Andrew moved on from thought again. 

Astray. Glass. Perseverance.

He stood.

It looked like it was time.

 


End file.
